Paris

Winter in England

afternoon giving way

to evening

filling the windows

of this ancient room

with darkness.

.

Yet for this moment

I am not here.

.

I am playing scratchy

smoky

sensual

haunting

French jazz

on my turntable.

.

I can almost smell

the Gauloises

and the Chanel.

.

I can almost hear

Pigalle

bursting with life

outside my window.

.

I can almost imagine

you and I

somehow both

transported

to a Paris summer.

.

I am sprawled

loose-limbed and easy

in an old leather chair

drinking wine.

.

And you are dancing

and shedding clothes

and blowing me kisses

while I

smiling

enchanted

enraptured

adoring

applaud.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Not new  – but a favourite

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Every day

Her desire

for his darkness

becomes more

dangerous

delicious

decadent

deep

and dirty

every day.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

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

 

High

.

I have been high

on the bottle,

the rich taste of red wine in my mouth

blackberry, cinnamon, tobacco, leather,

Another glass, and another.

And perhaps another.

Until all I know is crimson liquid.

Then brandy or port or absinthe.

Or all three.

Pour me out of a taxi and take me home.

.

I have been high

on acid.

Pills, blotting paper, microdots with happy, hippy names.

Colours bleeding into surfaces into shapes into light.

Music holy with new tones and textures to touch.

The revelations, the meanings, the weird,

finding a new religion in a carpet.

The warm fade and glow

of coming down.

.

I have been high

on adventure,

on exploration, on discovery, the wild, the different, the strange.

On art, on words, on music, on performance, on poetry.

On the strings of my guitar.

On winning, on deals, on negotiation.

On a high-five finish

On landscapes, seascapes, lucky escapes.

On the lights on the harbour twinkling like diamonds

On snow, on ice, on powder.

On that feeling, at the end of the page

when everything

is perfect.

.

I have had

a lifetime of highs

but nothing

absolutely nothing

not a single thing

comes close

to you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Attraction is a mystery

Attraction is a mystery

What is it that captures, captivates and compels?

What is it that draws us, like iron to magnet, bee to honey, moth to light? What is it that makes us warm to another, need to make contact, need to be in their presence, or simply make us catch our breath when they come close?

Is it in their eyes, or their mouth? Is it the arc of their smile? Is it in their height, their weight, their curves and lines? Is it in the colour of their skin or their hair? Is it in their laughter, or their voice, or their words, or the intelligent mind within?

Is it in their honesty, their truth, their empathy, their kindness, their compassion, their hope?

Is it in their movement, their balance, the way their body moves when they walk? Is it in the clothes they wear?

Is it in what they do, what they like, what they believe?

Is it in their beauty, and the beauty they see around them?

Is it in how good they make us feel?

Is it something we instantly see deep in their soul, something we recognise and know? Something that touches our own?

Is it that we sense they will complete us?

Attraction is a mystery.

Even after all these years I cannot explain it.

But I do know

I am deeply attracted to you

by all of the above.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Written a few years ago. I still don’t know the answer, and probably never will. But I do know what attracts me …

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Paris

Winter in England

afternoon giving way

to evening

filling the windows

of this ancient room

with darkness.

.

Yet for this moment

I am not here.

.

I am playing scratchy

smoky

sensual

haunting

French jazz

on my turntable.

.

I can almost smell

the Gauloises

and the Chanel.

.

I can almost hear

Pigalle

bursting with life

outside my window.

.

I can almost imagine

you and I

somehow both

transported

to a Paris summer.

.

I am sprawled

loose-limbed and easy

in an old leather chair

drinking wine.

.

And you are dancing

and shedding clothes

and blowing me kisses

while I

smiling

enchanted

enraptured

adoring

applaud.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Odyssey

I have travelled

through myth and legend

fantasy and mystery

storm and rain

sun and shadow

beauty and tears

sex and darkness

to find you

to explore you

to own you

eyes and mouth

hair and throat

breasts and hips

arse and legs

belly and thighs

submissive soul

and clever mind.

You are my odyssey.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Bring me you

I have instructed

the night

to bring me you

and fill my dreams

with your beauty

and your curves

your scent

and your skin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Secret Dance

You and I

we dance

in these shadows

so darkly

so quietly

so closely

so secretly

no light escapes

not a whisper

is heard.

Nothing

is revealed.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Waiting

A pale

silver-gold

wintry sun

caresses

the walls

and strokes

the furnishings.

This late

December afternoon

is silent

hushed

and still.

Yet with one eye

half-open

as if waiting

for something

or someone.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Actually written in another November, not December. Yet it could be today.

Art by Hamish Blakely