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Instrument

 

Your body is a rare

beautifully constructed

almost holy instrument

upon which my fingers

and my creativity

and my imagination

and my dark desires

long to play.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a brand new verse. But such an instrument ….

Art by Bruno di Maio

 
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Posted by on March 25, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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No wish

 

She has

no wish

to escape

the rules

that bind her

nor seek

release

from the terms

of her surrender.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Every pore

 

I will not stop

exploring you

until I have counted

every single pore

of your perfect skin.

 

And then counted

them all

once more

over and over

and over again.

 

Just to ensure

I do not miss

a single one.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a new post. But worth counting.

Art by Victoria Selbach

 
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Posted by on March 23, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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A dream of you

 

A dream of you.

Your legs long on impossible heels. The roll and glide and shimmy as you walk.  And turn.  And dance,

A panther poised.

A gorgeous glide.  A sleek and sensual slide.

Your hair like a storm. Your body clutched tight in a sheath of a dress.

Peeled off slow.

Your arms raised.

Waiting for your wrists to be tied.

Your mouth, your lips, your teeth, your tongue, your breath like a warm breeze.

Calling me to rise.

Your perfect peach of a posterior pressed into my belly, into my thighs, into my hungry. bold tumescence.

A dream of you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written five years ago. These days I dream of you.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
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Posted by on March 22, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Thursday’s Child

 

Thursday’s Child

.

Well, I hear that you have been travelling

with a friend in an open-topped car,

and you revealed to him all your secrets

and you showed him your operation scar.

You painted his name on your mirror

with a lipstick glossy and red,

and you posed for imaginary photos

in the warm nest of your unmade bed..

.

He sent you a handful of spidery poems

that you captured with pins on your wall,

I read them when you were sleeping

and they seemed to make no sense at all.

Yet you recite them when you are bathing,

trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,

and you emerge mysterious and glowing

with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.

.

There is more to this than just attraction

or some strange late night trick of the light,

and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs

in a dress that is so transparent and white.

And I fear that you’ve sensed a religion

in the casual, brave cut of his coat,

as you kneel so sublime at his alter

clasping tight all the letters he wrote.

.

Now I hear you’ve constructed a bonfire

from the things your sweet mother knew best,

and that you comfort his wide-eyed supporters

who sleep with their hands on your breasts.

But you never once give them the shelter

they crave when the light has grown dim,

and while you suffer the press of their bodies

you save all your mystery for him.

.

I miss you when the round moon is sailing,

I feel your caress in the turn of the tide.

it is as constant as the ache in my shoulders,

It is the sharp stabbing pain of your knife.

And oh, how I hunger for you to be near me,

your peeled clothes like a sea at your feet,

your pale skin tasting of salt and seaweed.

I’m a slave to your scent and your heat.

.

But if I plead with him to release you,

with just a snap of his finger and thumb

will you forget his smooth benediction,

or the velvet magic of his silver tongue?

.

.

I apologise to regular readers who have read this often – but it has been a year since the last posting. This is one of favourite my ‘performance’ poems. In fact it might even be one of the poems I am most proud of having written. And it was written many years ago. It started out as a song but I struggled to develop a chorus.  As I said, It has appeared in many places. I have posted it a number of times here before when this blog was even less popular than it is now.  It tells a story that was inspired by (my) real life events.  Because it is penned in the first person, the reader/listener tends to think that the narrator is writing about himself. Actually I was the writer of the ‘handful of spidery poems’.  

Do listen to the audio – it was a poem that is meant to be read aloud.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photography by Ines Rehberg.   Model is Megan Szczypka. I chose this photo because she is not unlike the female subject of the poem

 
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Posted by on March 21, 2020 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Command Performance

 

 

He wants

to make her body sing

to train her

to direct her

to conduct her

to control her.

 

He wants

to make her body sing

to be his chanteuse

to be his nightingale

to be his diva

to be his leading lady soprano

pouring out her soul

 

He wants

to make her body sing

and sigh

and dance

and glide

and twist

and writhe

and shiver

and sway

and fill his stage

with her perfect submission

a command performance

only for him.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This post is three years old – but a command performance is always special.

Art by Laszio Gulyas

 
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Posted by on March 20, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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If I was a poet

 

If I was a poet

I would craft such lines for you.

I would weigh every word carefully. Examine it. Measure it. Carefully determine its suitability. Its intention. Its light and shade. Its truth.

I would test it carefully in its relationship with other words. I would study their harmony, their balance, their humour, their wisdom, their meaning.

I would lay each sentence tenderly with the rest. Matching. Contrasting. Comparing. Trying them in my mind, beneath my fingers, in my mouth. On my tongue.

I would hold them up to you. Lay them over you. Place them side by side with you. Meticulously ensuring they capture your beauty, your elegance, your warmth, your intelligence, your grace.  Making sure they fit you perfectly. Striving to make them do you justice.

If I was a poet.

And if you belonged to me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

Not new, but I’m still not a poet.

 
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Posted by on March 19, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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