Dress

Dress

One more glass and I will submit

to the memory of her dress.

Silk less smooth as the skin within,

and I’ve seen her wearing less.

.

But you never knew me quite this way

with my eyes so full of clouds.

Some black poison has ruined me

and the gown is now a shroud.

.

One more glass and I will resort

to softly whispering her name.

Writing words on my exposed pale wrists

in an attempt to hide the stain.

.

But you never knew me quite this way

With my body so stale and old.

I’ve tortured the flame of this candle

And its grey smoke kiss has left me cold.

.

One more glass and I will forget

the sweet memory of her dress.

She wore it for me one afternoon

when she still wanted to impress.

.

.

Copyright 2008 The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Mark Spain

 I wrote this one night in an almost deserted restaurant in some miserable Frankfurt suburb almost eight years ago.  I was feeling sorry for myself with a cold and had not gone out with my business colleagues.  Instead I ate by myself, drank red wine in excess, wallowed in manly self-pity, and scrawled this poem on the back page of a dull report.

It is about a submissive lover called Nikki who had hair as black as a raven’s and dark brown eyes that I can still see if I close mine.  We had parted some months before.
The biggest challenge was trying to work out what I’d written the next day. 

The recording is a little old, but I hope you enjoy anyway

 

Betrayal

She hesitated for the briefest of moments

An imperceptible beat. The sweep of a clock hand marking a second. The folding of a butterfly’s wings. The delayed first clap of applause at the end of a recital. The reluctant closing of a child’s eyes, surrendering to sleep.

The silence hung in the air between them as if frozen, Solid, tangible, impassable. She wanted to reach across it for his hand, or touch his cheek, or stroke his hair, But the emptiness was too dense. An impassable barrier

He made the faintest movement with his head. His expression didn’t change. And yet something of him vanished from his face. But his features remained as immobile as mask. She could read nothing. His eyes were dead. Empty.

She was filled with longing for him. To be held as if she would never be released. To be hugged until everything was better.

It was the longing one has for something forever lost.

She could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks. Leaving sad, wet, first tracks for many more to follow.

She wanted to plead, to beg, to fall upon her knees and beseech him. Yet the awful finality of the moment paralysed her and made her mute.

He had known, from her pause, from that briefest of uncertainties, what she had done.

He would never forgive her.

Without a word, he turned on his heel, and walked away.

He did not look back.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph stolen from Tarasov

 

 

 

Everything from me

I hear her name in elevated circles.

She has become a local luminary. A ‘must-have’ on the social circuit.

They applaud her, admire her, adore her and want her.  She stands out in company as if illuminated by a faithfully following super trouper.  She blinds them with her words, her smile, and the elegant prowl of her hips.  She entrances them with her conversation.

The art, the music, the theatre, the dance.  The wit, the politics, the subtle shift from almost shade to gentle light. The way she dresses, Her elegant, perfect, dangerous desirability. The carefully choreographed revelation of her submissive sexuality to the chosen, the undeserving and the blessed.

When she kneels before them they are enraptured and lost.

She trades it all as if it is who she truly is.

But everything is borrowed, stolen, copied, or faked.

I should know.  She was my protégée, my pupil, my ward, my student, my apprentice.

I was her Master.  I taught her illusion.

She took everything from me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 

Sealed the box

There was never really any doubt.

She had laid out her holiday clothes a fortnight before.  She had her lovely mane of hair trimmed and shaped. She had counted down the days on her fingers until only the one that sparkled with her engagement diamond remained. She could barely contain her excitement.

He gently told her that marriage would change her perspective. He said that he would understand if she no longer wished to maintain their sweet, unlikely friendship.  He explained that if he did not hear from her again he would carefully place all the memories and all the fantasies safe inside a special box.

He would only ever open it on those lonely, faded days when he truly needed to remember what it was like to have known perfection.

She laughed and said that they would talk soon.

She flew off to seek the sun in winter, and to change her name.

Time has passed and he has sealed the box.

He knows that his wounded heart and his stubborn pride will never allow him to lift the lid again.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

Echoes

Do not be alarmed.

These echoes have no power.  There is no resonance in their whispers, no memory in their vibration, no siren melody in their soft, distinct reverberation.

There is no connection in their distant, plaintive, lost harmony.

These echoes mean nothing.

It is merely the sound of dust settling.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

Make Me Steel

She believes it is an inferno

She says it is blazing out of control inside me.

She can hear it roaring angry as a chimney-fire

She can sense it devouring hungry as a forest-fire.

She can feel the heat on my skin, the intensity in my eyes, the passion in my voice.

She is seared by my ardor, scalded by my desire, scorched by my longing.

She is blinded by the light of this brilliant new star.

She knows that the white-hot flame is not for her

She does not know it burns only for Beauty

She does not care

She only wants to take me

To have me dive into her cool, dark waters.

To have me plunge into her liquid depths.

To quench the boiling core that seethes inside me.

To temper the raw molten alloy

And make me steel.