Seed

Seed

You can try

every cure, every potion, every remedy,

you can erase it with drugs, with sex, with religion

you can cauterize it, crush it, cut it, crucify it,

you can freeze it, forgive it, forget it, fuck it,

you can deny it, defy it, deride it, destroy it,

you can burn it, break it, belittle it, betray it, bury it,

you can hate it, harm it, hurt it, harangue it,

you can trick it, tear it, trap it, trash it,

you can eject it, evade it, evict it, eat it,

you can poison it, persecute it, prick it, prune it,

you can shame it, shatter it, smash it, suck it

you can ruin it, regret it, reduce it, rape it,

you can inject it, intimidate it, isolate it,

you can leave it, lash it, lose it.

You can try

every spell, every enchantment, every charm

you can call in an exorcist,

you can send up prayers

you can summon the devil

you can invoke an ancient curse

you can wear it away, wish it away, wash it away, want it away

you can pretend it never was, never is, never will be

you can try anything and everything

but you will never

ever

be free

of the seed

I planted

in your soul.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Kelly Reemtsen

Written six years ago – but already one of my favourite performance poems, so much fun to write and recite – truly worth a listen, though I say it myself.
And this seed is dangerous whenever and wherever it is planted.

 

I want you

I want you.

It is as basic as that.

It is as primal as that.

It is as simple as that.

It is as wild as that.

It is as raw as that.

It is as dark as that.

It is as holy as that.

It is as dirty as that.

It is as true as that.

It is as pure as that.

I want you.

I want you.

I want you.

.

.

Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Pale words

When I see you

all my words

suddenly

seem dull

and pale

and empty.

Yet I wanted

to give you them

so much.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Prophecy

She gives me her palm to read.

.

I trace a line

from the tip

of her index finger

to the flickering

nervous pulse

in her wrist.

.

Then along the pale skin

of her arm.

.

I climb the rise

of her breasts

and traverse

her elegant shoulder.

.

I tenderly

stroke her throat

and chin

and cheeks.

.

I touch the curve of her lips

then softly kiss

her mouth

with a prophecy.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Written six years ago, but I hope the reader does not mind the repeat

Art by Casey Baugh

 

Shiver

A shiver.

A delicious, electric, thrilling shiver.

An ice-hot sensation rushing from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine.

It hurries to her throat and steals her breath.

It colours her skin with a sudden, rosy, tell-tale blush.

It hardens her nipples as if touched by a kiss

It dances wild across her belly and hips.

It makes her gasp as it tugs at her thighs

It penetrates her sex.

A shiver

Running down her spine

Coming from him.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Yanjun Cheng

A post from eight years ago. Yet hopefully it resonates.

 

But will you?

I have been as guilty of it as anyone.

But much less so these days.  Now the shadows are lengthening.

Because there is but one life.  There is no heaven in which to smugly contemplate relentless eternity. There is no hell to somehow face greater suffering. There are no seventy-two virgins with legs spread wide. There is no reincarnation as a deer, or a fox, or someone somehow better.

There is only now.

The years which seemed to stretch out endlessly when we are soft and still to be moulded, constantly gather momentum. Like water rushing out of the basin. Like sand escaping the narrowing hourglass.  Life is so short. Time is so precious.

And yet we waste it.  We procrastinate.  We dither. We make excuses. We pretend to be something we are not rather than act upon who we are. We pretend we are looking for perfection as if it really exists. We fear making mistakes and instead we do nothing.  We hold ourselves back, saving our hearts, bodies, and souls for someday, some person, some event that may never be. Our days pass by with nothing to mark them but the calendar. We always think that there is still tomorrow …

I know I will eventually end my days regretting the women, the times, the joys (and even the sorrows) I did not have far more than I will regret those I had*.

I once told someone that Life is not a Rehearsal.

She did not listen.

But will you?

.

.

* I am certain this thought is stolen from elsewhere, so please do forgive the plagiarism.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/FadedRomantic

Another unearthing from my archive.

Art by William Oxer

 

Aroma

There are fragrances I adore.

Red wine and the earthy aroma of a mature Rioja. Pepper, smoke, leather, pencil lead, tobacco and oak.

The pungent, salty, briny, fishy, seaweed, damp sand, ozone smell of a small working harbour when the boats have returned with their silver, flapping catch.

Patchouli, and musk and sandalwood, and the magical promise of marijuana, reminding me of stoned nights lost in music and poetry.

A garden awash with flowers, wisteria, alyssum, gardenia, magnolia, sweet pea, jasmine and glorious rose.

The smells redolent of summer and my childhood – new-mown hay, cotton candy, melting tar, honey, horses, chlorine, cinnamon, chocolate, the drifting smoke of a barbecue.

And others too – coffee beans roasting, peaty Irish whiskey, wild garlic, the evening after the rain and storm, and the familiar breath of home when I open the door.

The rich leather of cuffs, collar and blindfold, whips and flogger

And most of all, women.

A thousand fragrances, every body different. Her fresh washed hair, her make-up creams and oils. Her sweet perspiration. Her soft breath. Her purchased perfume made unique when it meets the personal aroma of her warm skin

And that heady, wondrous, eloquent, wild, delicate scent

of pure arousal

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I am still delving among some of my past and almost forgotten writings. This one is still so very true.
 
Art by Fabian Perez

 

Slow surrender

She is innocent.

Her bold beauty is barely blemished. Her gorgeous body is almost untouched by another’s breath. The gentle pages of her heart are yet to be written.  Her hunger is new and urgent. She longs for something she has yet to discover.
She has purity in her soul.

He is darkness.

He has loved and won and lost his way through enough joy and sorrow to fill the night. He has coaxed forth endless sweet fantasies, elegantly bestowed a thousand decadent pleasures, and administered such breathtaking, delicious torture.
His eyes have seen far beyond the shadows.

Yet there is an ache that binds them. A primeval yearning that sets them apart from all others.

He will sanctify her slow surrender and make them both holy.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

More delving in my archives. I like this one.

Art by William Oxer

 

You think I am romantic

You think I am romantic.

You read my words and you read ‘love’ into them.

But I hardly ever use the word.

It is too big and too small. Too specific and too universal.

It has been idolized, eulogized, exalted, celebrated, hymned and acclaimed.

It has been hijacked, railroaded, politicized, kidnapped, blackmailed, broken, ruined and whored.

It has been given and taken, lost and found, borrowed and stolen.

It has been used as a reason for everything, an answer for everything, an excuse for everything.

It has been devalued by so many wanting it, by so many selling it.

So I hardly ever use the word ‘love’.

I write of lust, desire, longing, and yearning. Of sensuality, sex and eroticism. Of arousal and excitement. Of seduction and initiation. Of pleasure and pain. Of Domination and submission. Of attraction and infatuation. Of caring. Of nurture. Of adoration. Of friendship. And yes, of romance too.

Because I know exactly what those words mean.

And if I ever write of love – and I sometimes do

I make sure I know exactly

what

and who

I mean.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Not the first time I have posted this. Still true.

Art by William Oxer

 

Beyond Time

It is a magical place here.

I can be anywhere I want to be.

A restaurant by the water, sunshine, grilled fish, and rough local wine. Watching the fishermen mending their nets. A blue sky swept clean of clouds.

A high peak on a stormy day, the wind torturing the bravest trees, the rain threatening, the light fading. Lost in the wild view across forest, river, and fields.

The first run of the day on fresh snow sparkling like a million diamonds. The air clear and sharp. Skis gliding effortlessly.

A summer night in the city.  Light and music spilling out onto sultry streets full of Friday promise. Friends and lovers and hopeful strangers filling clubs and bars with laughter and drama.

Best of all, with you. Your heat, your scent, your touch, your breath, your voice, your smile, your mind, your beauty, your body, your soul.

Skin on skin. You and I.

Beyond time.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Hamish Blakely