AuntieKlimax

STRAP-ON  -    by sub mtc

Silicone conqueror presenting arms.

Trothed to do these solemn deeds.

Radiating power often alarms.

All who summoned through their needs.

Presented with leather, shows it charms.

Over lovely hips the lance proceeds.

Narrow opening it pleases and harms.

now tied up, tied down

mistress cruel approaches me

now tied down, it's up

- anonymous haiku

Bad Boys Get Spanked  by Chrissie Hynde (The Pretenders)

You're not supposed to do that.

You know you're not allowed to,

But you seem to get some kind of kick

Out of doing what you're not allowed to.

You deliberately defy the rules

'Cause the law's upheld by fools - 

Shit on that.

Bad boys get spanked!

You can look but don't touch,

But no you can't resist.

Don't you ever think about the consequence?

Guys like you never do.

That's the kind of stuff boys are made out of,

That's the kind of stuff girls are made out of.

Bad boys get spanked!

Bad boys get spanked!

You don't listen do you asshole?

Don't be a punk all your life!

Someone's gonna sort you out.

They'll try to make a man out of you -

Say yes sir, say no sir!

Say yes ma'am, say no m'am!

Shit on that!

Bad boys get spanked!

Bad boys get spanked!

Get spanked, get spanked!

Come here, get spanked!

Bad boys get spanked!

Come here, get spanked!

Prisoner Of Love

Lyrics by Leo Robin (1931)

Music by Russ Columbo & Clarence Gaskill

Made famous by Russ Columbo, Perry Como, Billy Eckstine, Frank Sinatra, Etta James, James Brown and others.

Alone from night to night you'll find me

Too weak to break the chains that bind me,

I need no shackles to remind me

I'm just a prisoner of love.

For one command I stand and wait now

From one who's master of my fate now.

I can't escape for it's too late now.

I'm just a prisoner of love.

What's the good of my caring 

if someone is sharing 

those arms with me?

Although she has another

I can't have another 

for I'm not free.

She's in my dreams awake or sleeping,

Upon my knees to her I'm creeping,

My very life is in her keeping.

I'm just a prisoner of love.

What's the good of my caring

if someone is sharing 

those arms with me?

Although she has another, 

I can't have another 

for I'm not free.

She's in my dreams awake or sleeping.

Upon my knees to her I'm creeping.

My very life is in her keeping.

I'm just a prisoner of love.

Your Feet – Pablo Neruda (translated by ?)

When I cannot look at your face

I look at your feet.

Your feet of arched bone,

your hard little feet.

I know that they support you,

and that your sweet weight

rises upon them.

Your waist and your breasts,

the doubled purple

of your nipples,

the sockets of your eyes

that have just flown away,

your wide fruit mouth,

your red tresses,

my little tower.

But I love your feet

only because they walked

upon the earth and upon

the wind and upon the waters,

until they found me

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837 - 1909) Nobel Prize nominated poet, playwright, novelist and masochist.

These verses are excerpted from a much longer poem.

Google 'Swinburne Dolores You Tube' to hear the entire poem beautifully read.

DOLORES (Notre-Dame des Sept Douleurs)

By Algernon Charles Swinburne

Cold eyelids that hide like a jewel

Hard eyes that grow soft for an hour;

The heavy white limbs, and the cruel

Red mouth like a venomous flower;

When these are gone by with their glories,

What shall rest of thee then, what remain,

O mystic and sombre Dolores,

                Our Lady of Pain?

Wilt thou smile as a woman disdaining

The light fire in the veins of a boy?

But he comes to thee sad, without feigning,

Who has wearied of sorrow and joy;

Less careful of labour and glory

Than the elders whose hair has uncurled;

And young, but with fancies as hoary

               And grey as the world.

I have passed from the outermost portal

To the shrine where a sin is a prayer;

What care though the service be mortal?

O our Lady of Torture, what care?

All thine the last wine that I pour is,

The last in the chalice we drain,

O fierce and luxurious Dolores,

               Our Lady of Pain.

Thou shalt blind his bright eyes though he wrestle,

Thou shalt chain his light limbs though he strive;

In his lips all thy serpents shall nestle,

In his hands all thy cruelties thrive.

In the daytime thy voice shall go through him,

In his dreams he shall feel thee and ache;

Thou shalt kindle by night and subdue him

               Asleep and awake.

Thou shalt touch and make redder his roses

With juice not of fruit nor of bud;

When the sense in the spirit reposes,

Thou shalt quicken the soul through the blood.

Thine, thine the one grace we implore is,

Who would live and not languish or feign,

O sleepless and deadly Dolores,

               Our Lady of Pain

Kinky - by Denise Duhamel

(Yes! The same Eugene Field who wrote “Wynken, Blynken and Nod” and many other children’s favorites! Here we get an idea about what he may have been doing in his spare time.)

 In Imitation of Robert Herrick’s

ON JULIA UNLACING HERSELF

By Eugene Field   

Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come

This camphire, storeax, spikenard, galbanum,

These musks, these ambers, and those other smells

Sweet as the vestrie of the oracles.

I’ll tell thee: While my Julia did unlace

Her silken bodice, but a breathing space,

The passing air such odor then assum’d

As when to Jove Great Juno goes perfumed,

Whose pure immortal body doth transmit

A scent that fills both heaven and earth with it.

‘Tis when my Julia sheds her hose

That there us wafted to my nose

An odor with such spices fraught

That I esteem all others naught;

And when she belches, what a smell

Of heliotrope and asphodel;

But when my Julia breaks her wind.

There issues from her fair behind

A breath that would become, I ween,

A Pallas or a Paphian Queen;

No hollow clamor speaks the birth

Of this ethereal child of earth

But hot and swift it mounts the air

Dispensing savor everywhere;

Swooning with ecstasy, I kiss

The heaven that breathed this gale of bliss.

The Giantess      by Charles Baudelaire

from Flowers of Evil (Fleurs du Mal) translated by William Aggeler

At the time when Nature with a lusty spirit 

Was conceiving monstrous children each day, 

I should have liked to live near a young giantess, 

Like a voluptuous cat at the feet of a queen.

I should have liked to see her soul and body thrive 

And grow without restraint in her terrible games; 

To divine by the mist swimming within her eyes 

If her heart harbored a smoldering flame;

To explore leisurely her magnificent form;

To crawl upon the slopes of her enormous knees

And sometimes in summer, when the unhealthy sun

Makes her stretch out, weary, across the countryside, 

To sleep nonchalantly in the shade of her breasts, 

Like a peaceful hamlet below a mountainside.

Food of Love – Carolyn Kiser

Eating is touch carried to the bitter end.   - Samuel Butler II ?

I’m going to murder you with love;

I’m going to suffocate you with embraces;

I’m going to hug you, bone by bone,

Till you’re dead all over.

Then I will dine on your delectable marrow.

You will become my personal Sahara;

I’ll sun myself in you, then with one swallow

Drain your remaining brackish well.

With my female blade I’ll carve my name

In your most aspiring palm

Before I chop it down.

Then I’ll inhale your last oasis whole.

But in the total desert you become

You’ll see me stretch, horizon to horizon,

Opulent mirage!

Wisteria balconies dripping cyclamen.

Vistas ablaze with crystal, laced in gold.

So you will summon each dry grain of sand

And move toward me in undulating dunes

Till you arrive at sudden ultramarine:

A Mediterranean to stroke your dusty shores;

Obstinate verdure, creeping inland, fast renudes

Your barrens; succulents spring up everywhere,

Surprising life! And I will be that green.

When you are fed and watered, flourishing

With shoots entwining trellis, dome, and spire,

Till you are resurrected field in bloom,

I will devour you, my natural food,

My host, my final supper on the earth,

And you’ll begin to die again.

?

Ah those wild and crazy boys!

Sonnet: To the Asshole

By Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, ca. 1871

Translated by J. Murat & W. Gunn

Dark, puckered hole: a purple carnation

That trembles, nestled among the moss

The wet of love still covering the gentle curvation

Of the white ass, just to the royal eyelet.

Threads resembling milky tears there are spun;

Spray forced back by the south wind's cruel threat

Across the small balls of brown shit has run,

To drip from the crack, which craves for it yet.

Not wishing the prick to have its bent,

My mouth too has often mated with that vent,

My sobbing tongue tried to devour the rose

Flowering in brown moisture. The chute unmanned,

It's a heavenly jam-pot, the Promised Land

Which with other milk and honey overflows!

Venus in Furs – Lou Reed (VELVET UNDERGROUND)

Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather, 

Whiplash girlchild in the dark; 

Comes in bells, your servant, don't forsake him, 

Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart. 

Downy sins of streetlight fancies 

Chase the costumes she shall wear, 

Ermine furs adorn the imperious - 

Severin, severin awaits you there.

I am tired, I am weary, 

I could sleep for a thousand years, 

A thousand dreams that would awake me, 

Different colors made of tears. 

Kiss the boot of shiny, shiny leather, 

Shiny leather in the dark, 

Tongue of thongs, the belt that does await you. 

Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart. 

Severin, severin, speak so slightly, 

Severin, down on your bended knee - 

Taste the whip, in love not given lightly, 

Taste the whip, now bleed for me. 

I am tired, I am weary, 

I could sleep for a thousand years, 

A thousand dreams that would awake me, 

Different colors made of tears. 

Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather, 

Whiplash girlchild in the dark, 

Severin, your servant comes in bells, please don't forsake him. 

Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart.

Breaking - Heidi E. Erdreich

She kept a stash of forbidden matches,

got caught dropping splashes of wax on her bed.

Iced-over sidewalks, the ones I loved to skim,

she cracked with her hard heel. All I got was

water welling up where she walked. Still, I followed

through the shards, saw her jump in some boy's car.

She started the dream — a storm with flat hands

bangs on all the windows, a storm in a green gown

with rain-dark hair. This girl, who wouldn't lift

her gray eyes to her mother's gaze, would make love

in old farmhouses, on abandoned boxsprings,

on scoured linoleum, in rusted bathtubs,

junked trucks along windbreaks.

She broke in, she told me, not to love

those boys, but to melt them down,

look them in the eye and crack their glaze.

She started the dream — a storm pries the edge

off the roof, lifts my lids, glares at me with a gray eye

that strikes on love, that can get past all human walls.

SUFFERER - Elissa Wald

I've put my forehead to the floor -

Clenched the dry, itchy strands

of the rug in my hands

And cried, till I couldn't cry any more.

I've felt myself moaning and keening

On my knees, like a scrubwoman cleaning.

I've caught my own eyes in the mirror -

Bright and shiny, aglow,

Just before the tears flow:

I've never seen anything clearer.

In dark moments like these I believe

There is nothig so beautiful

As me

When I grieve.

Thanks to njbisubmale for sending me this!

From PHENOMENAL WOMEN – Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms,

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them,

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing,

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need for my care.

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

do whatever you want, she says,

as if it were that easy.

i’m about to go off, start another

sentence with “I” but i look up

and she’s standing back now, watching.

she opens her mouth and lets me see

inside, shows me how she’s eaten philosophy.

my god is bigger than yours, she says,

your whole world is just a detail.

Gilbert Garcia

A change of pace:

SHORT SKIRT LONG JACKET  

John McCrea  (Cake)

I want a girl with a mind like a diamond,

I want a girl who knows what's best.

I want a girl with shoes that cut

And eyes that burn like cigarettes.

I want a girl with the right allocations

Who's fast and thorough and sharp as a tack

She's playing with her jewelry, she's putting up her hair,

She's touring the facility and picking up slack

I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnng jacket.

I want a girl who gets up early,

I want a girl who stays up late.

I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity

Who uses a machete to cut through red tape.

With fingernails that shine like justice

And a voice that is dark like tinted glass.

She is fast and thorough and sharp as a tack;

She's touring the facility and picking up slack.

I want a girl with a short skirt and a long, long jacket

I want a girl with a smooth liquidation,

I want a girl with good dividends,

And at the Citibank we will meet accidentally

We'll start to talk when she borrows my pen.

She wants a car with a cupholder arm rest,

She wants a car that will get her there.

She's changing her name from Kitty to Karen,

She's trading her MG for a white Chrysler LeBaron

I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket

The Victorians truly knew what it meant to kneel before a powerful woman.

 The Female of the Species - Rudyard Kipling

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, 

He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. 

But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail. 

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, 

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can. 

But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail. 

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, 

They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws. 

'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale. 

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, 

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away; 

But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale— 

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,— 

Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise. 

Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact 

To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, 

To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. 

Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex 

Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame 

Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same; 

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, 

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast 

May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest. 

These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells— 

She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great 

As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate. 

And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim 

Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties; 

Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!— 

He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild, 

Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights, 

Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites, 

Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw 

And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer 

With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her 

Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands 

To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him 

Must command but may not govern—shall enthrall but not enslave him. 

And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, 

That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Another from sweet Will:

SONNET 58 - William Shakespeare

That god forbid, that made me first your slave,

I should in thought control your times of pleasure,

Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,

Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!

O! let me suffer, being at your beck,

The imprison'd absence of your liberty;

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,

Without accusing you of injury.

Be where you list, your charter is so strong

That you yourself may privilege your time

To what you will; to you it doth belong

Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

  I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,

  Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.

Some thoughts from the Bard himself:

SONNET 57 - William Shakespeare

Being your slave, what should I do but tend 

Upon the hours and times of your desire?

I have no precious time at all to spend,

Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour

Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,

Nor think the bitterness of absence sour

When you have bid your servant once adieu; 

Nor dare I question with my jealous thought 

Where you may be, or your affairs suppose, 

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought

Save, where you are how happy you make those.

  So true a fool is love that in your will,

  Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill. 

Tamer and Hawk by Thom Gunn

I thought I was so tough, 

But gentled at your hands, 

Cannot be quick enough 

To fly for you and show 

That when I go I go 

At your commands.

Even in flight above 

I am no longer free: 

You seeled me with your love, 

I am blind to other birds. 

The habit of your words 

Has hooded me.

As formerly, I wheel 

I hover and I twist, 

But only want the feel, 

In my possessive thought, 

Of catcher and of caught 

Upon your wrist.

You but half civilize, 

Taming me in this way. 

Through having only eyes 

For you I fear to lose, 

I lose to keep, and choose 

Tamer as prey.

??

The Accompanist  -  by William Matthews

Don’t play too much, don’t play

too loud, don’t play the melody.

You have to anticipate her

and to subdue yourself.

She used to give me her smoky

eye when I got boisterous,

so I learned to play on tip-

toe and to play the better half

of what I might.  I don’t like

to complain, though I notice

that I got around to it somehow.

We made a living and good music,

both, night after night, the blue

curlicues of smoke rubbing their

staling and wispy backs

against the ceilings, the flat

drinks and scarce taxis, the jazz life

we bitch about the way Army pals

complain about the food and then

re-up.  Some people like to say

with smut in their voices how playing

the way we did at our best is partly

sexual.  OK, I could tell them

a tale or two, and I’ve heard

the records Lester cut with Lady Day

and all that rap, and it’s partly

sexual but it’s mostly practice

and music.  As for partly sexual,

I’ll take wholly sexual any day,

but that’s a duet and we’re talking

accompaniment.  Remember “Reckless

Blues”?  Bessie Smith sings out “Daddy”

and Louis Armstrong plays back “Daddy”

as clear through his horn as if he’d

spoken it.  But it’s her daddy and her

story.  When you play it you become

your part in it, one of her beautiful

troubles, and then, however much music

can do this, part of her consolation,

the way pain and joy eat off each other’s

plates, but mostly you play to drunks,

to the night, to the way you judge

and pardon yourself, to all that goes

not unsung, but unrecorded.

Why, Emily! Who would have guessed?

I like a look of Agony,

Because I know it's true ---

Men do not sham Convulsion,

Nor simulate, a Throe --

The Eyes glaze once--and that is Death--

Impossible to feign

The Beads upon the Forehead

By homely Anguish strung.

-Emily Dickinson

A poem for you stray subs out there...  you know who you are.

DOG - by Weldon Kees

“This night is monstrous winter when the rats

Swarm in great packs along the waterfront,

When midnight closes in and takes away your name.

And it was Rover, Ginger, Laddie, Prince;

My pleasure hambones.  Donned a collar once

With golden spikes, the darling of a cultured home

Somewhere between the harbor and the heights, uptown.

Or is this something curs with lathered mouths invent?

They had a little boy I would have bitten, had I dared.

They threw great bones out on the balcony.

But where? I pant at every door tonight.

I knew this city once the way I know those lights

Blinking in chains along the other side,

Those streets that hold the odors of my kind.

But now, my bark a ghost in this strange scentless air,

I am no growling cicerone or cerberus

But wreckage for the pound, snuffling in shame

All cold nosed toward identity. – Rex?  Ginger?  No.

A sort of panic jabbering inside begins.

Wild for my shadow in this vacantness,

I can at least run howling towards the bankrupt lights

Into the traffic where bones, cats and masters swarm.

And where my name must be.”

Powerful isn't it?

What do Women Want? - Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.

I want it flimsy and cheap,

I want it too tight, I want to wear it

until someone tears it off me.

I want it sleeveless and backless,

this dress, so no one has to guess

what's underneath. I want to walk down

the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store

with all those keys glittering in the window,

past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old

doughnuts in their cafe, past the Guerra brothers

slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,

hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.

I want to walk like I'm the only

woman on earth and I can have my pick.

I want that red dress bad.

I want it to confirm you worst fears about me,

to show you how little I care about you

or anything except what

I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment

from its hanger like I'm choosing a body

to carry me into this world, through

the birth-cries and love-cries too,

and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,

it'll be the goddamned

dress they bury me in.

The poet says so much in so few words -

ELIZABETH IN ITALY

'Suddenly she slapped me, hard across the face.

I implored, but she declined to have any further

Social or sexual (so she put it) intercourse with me.

Neither would she give me either a personal picture

Or a lock of her most beautiful hair.

Indeed, she demanded, her exquisite voice

Quite hard, the return of her handkerchief

And any other things (I murmured, 'mementos,'

But she repeated 'things') I might have stolen

From her in my privileged position as her servant.

God only knew what had made her ask me

Fetch her the bathrobe that terrible night.

('That beautiful night,' I recollected aloud.)

Did I believe our positions were reversed?

(I whitened at the accusation.) Well, then,

She wished to make clear now and for so long

As the relationship ('Madam!' cried I) lasted,

That it could only do so if I went to bed first,

Where she would come at her pleasure.

I could make no clearer sign of my heartfelt

Gratitude and infinite relief at these words

Than by the impassioned and repeated kissing,

There and then, of her magnificent left breast

Which had come out of hiding towards the end

Of her peroration. Whereupon she slapped me again.'

--Richard Weber (b.1932)