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Your skin

 

I will know

every

sensual

sexual

soft

seductive

sleek

smooth

silky

secret

centimetre

of your

sacred

submissive

skin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, but such heaven to explore

Art by Omar Ortiz

 
6 Comments

Posted by on April 16, 2019 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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I am not a holy man

 

I am not a holy man.

But I will touch your brow

as you kneel before me.

I will whisper a prayer

to your beauty

and your body.

 

I am not a holy man.

But I will hear your confession

in the sacred darkness.

I will sing a hymn

to your sweet heart

and submissive soul.

 

I am not a holy man.

But I will place my hands upon you

and anoint you with oil.

I will bless the moment

of your conversion

that carried you

here to me.

.

.

This is perhaps four years old – I am still not a holy man

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Steve Hanks

 
2 Comments

Posted by on April 2, 2019 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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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

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

Art by Hamish Blakely

 
15 Comments

Posted by on March 29, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Walks this earth

 

There is a woman.

She walks this earth.

I have not met her, although I once came close. I have barely seen her, though glimpses have thrilled me. I have never spoken to her, although I swear I can hear her sweet accent in my head. And in my dreams.

I do not know her perfume but her scent thrills me. I have not touched her but can almost feel her skin beneath my finger tips. I have not looked into her eyes, but feel light-headed at the thought.

I have not owned her, but the hunger to do so consumes me.

There is a woman.

She walks this earth.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Steve Hanks

This is by no means new. I wrote it at least five years ago. It has been plagiarised a number of times, which I am told is a compliment. 

I like this piece very much. And one thing I do know for certain – there is a woman who walks the earth….

 
2 Comments

Posted by on March 24, 2019 in 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 21, 2019 in 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

 
4 Comments

Posted by on March 14, 2019 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Good things

 

Good things

do not come

to those who wait.

 

They have all

been taken

by those

who wanted them

enough

to go out

and get them.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new but always true

Art by Francine van Hove

 
6 Comments

Posted by on March 10, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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