SlaveIndigochild

The Kiss

.....Her Bondage

Oh how I?ve waited at the gates of hell. Stuck. An uncut diamond still unhewn and made of sand. Fragile, running through my own hands?..tired even of being turned

Yet waiting.

My body aches in every untouched crevice. Dry compounded earth buries me alive. My dry mouth unable to taste or indeed to swallow. A silence leaves my throat when I call out for you.

I am falling under your spell, your control. (God will kill me surely if he finds out I simply know but I need to keep my faith in someone). You say your control is an act of homage to my woman?s body. That I shall sit for you unbound and that I should not move. And so I sit for hours in excruciating ache. Leaning embracing air. Holding no-one. Eyes looking into space and on waking kissing air.

More you say. Give me more. And I feel your eyes caressing contours and the torture of my solitude. I hear the chip chip chipping of your sculptor?s knife against the marble. Flakes like snow flirt past mine eyes like blades of steel. And still??.

I do not, not just submit to you as i have to all men before. Let my ardour grow within. Staying still let it find its own way out, this that you know you so desire. Be full, be filled, be still I hear you say and let it pour from every fibre of your being. Chip chip chipping. And still the flakes of marble fall. More on the floor in what is broken off me more more more and still more on the floor than every pore of my skin....

I am warm yet still your hands never touch me. She is stone a duplicate you make. She will never kiss you the way that I have kissed so many men before. Yet still you try to find her. Chiselling her out of cold.

You?ve made many versions of me have you not? In your mind?s eye? Our eyes met and I came and finally sat upon your lap and your arm went around me protecting me from the world and from the gaze of others.

We are as secret as a sister and a brother. We are born of the same world, hewn from the same stone, carved from the same rock, fired in the same heat, blazoned in the self same furnace. We were always as one. Only the fragments of air between our bodies now and the merest whisper of space between our lips.

Release me from your ceaseless work of wondering. Let me move please. I will come to you whilst you work from memory. Release me from this bondage where hence I sit for you hour after endless hour whilst you watch and fathom your next move.

We can be together I hear you say when my work is complete. And so time binds me still like string, miles of it, wrapped 'round me cutting its straw like edges into my skin. I cannot breath, I do not dare for the pressure of your chords around me hurt the more. I cannot move even to touch myself to know that I have edges separate from the knife you cut me with. Every jagged cut hewn again and again until the marks themselves are smoothed and my skin grows tough against the scars of rebuttal.

I do not know. I cannot tell. I have no way to know since time it was in passing??.am I brittle now or is it flint you carve which breathes itself to life? Many come to watch and practice that hold you have me in.

Your work on me is done now surely? Our lips so close and yet so far. A forever-promised kiss that lasts, lasts for eternity.

...........His Restraint

Marble is a metamorphic rock my dear, resulting from the metamorphism of limestone. It has a slight surface translucency that is comparable to that of human skin. It is this quality that gives my work a visual depth beyond its mere surface. This evokes a certain realism when used for figurative works.

A figure can be placed upon slender lower legs and the balls of the feet only when the stress in the sculpture is carried through its entire form. I know when to push the stone to its limits and exactly when to stop least it crumble and fall.

My tools are music in my ears. La mazza; scalpelli: la subbia point; ll?unghettio, the little fingernail; la gradina, my multiple teeth; lo scalpello, my flat chisel; il flessibile with its diamond studed blade; lo scapezzatore, for splitting???ah lo, not il or la, but lo, lo, listen to that. Not a simple chip chip chipping.

How my tools of love look like pain. Striking until I find the edges of you.

I am not a man of many words but I have read of you, my beauty. You try my patience but we both know if he, my brother, would find out, he would no doubt kill us both. So there is very little time.

So stop your chip chip chipping against my restraint.

Let me split,

Carve,

Chisel and caress

With touch as hard as diamonds.

Let my restrain become refrain

Words become poetry

Poetry become dance.

Come to me

Immediately.

Sit here

Let me push you to your limits of desire

Put your breath upon my face

And my heart?s heat nearer to you.

Let me shape you????..

Take the weight of your soul?s burden

So:

Shall we shall we kiss?

Lines on scrying?
?

I will have scryed you.

Bathed whilst the kettle boiled.

Brewed the tea when ?
soaking in oiled water.

Throwing back my head to catch patchouli along my curls

clipping it high atop my head whilst pouring.

?
Dark swirls of leaves will have sunk to the bottom of ?
the cup

and I will sip the trace of sweetness as far down as I dare

so as not ?
to swallow leaves.

Turn the cup anti clock-wise three times in my right hand ?
and tip it up upon a matching saucer.

(The gold rimmed china, roughly thrown ?
in boxes: gift from a friend who asked me for a future.

?
Leaving time, I will make query in front of a sunlit ?
mirror and worry about my age, and lines and wrinkles.

Amazed I find ?
a face with wide-eyed hope. Do you like black-lined eyes and dark stained lips, ?
my bangled wrists and ankles, an olive skin??..holding the illusion ?
of immortality in the mask I prepare for you, letting down my hair a few ?
seconds before we meet so that you find it tumbled.

Breathe deep, deeper yet for synchronicity.

We will ?
deny each other touch at first yet this chosen skirt will swirl

and my shoulder ?
laid bare will beg for mercy, mercy, mercy.

Fragments of a slave?s song makes?
me rock-dance a while, wanting to run bare-foot to you even through the streets).

?
I turn the cup.

The whirl of who you were and are and ?
what we might become entranced in there.

In the old way, when all there was, were ?
women and their tea

Telling fortunes.

Churned from urns and told.

In unknown ?
tongues secondary to the pictures.

My grandma taught me that there might be a number in the sky?.

a hillside when once you travelled?..

the pouring cold and parting geese???.

your need for warm and rhythm.

The click and shunter of a wide wheeled car or train down a track ?
to travelling-forever-somewhere????

But I will search for me, a trickle emblazoned here or there:

clinging

 ?
where the sweetness refused to leave.

Having carried the cross and faith of so ?
many broken times how did I know how to mend my heart enough to keep it beating?

Do I see you here unmoving even in incumbent heat?

Throwing the cup and saucer into the sink of this ?
reality

grabbing a shawl, a bag

walking a meditation to the station

still seeing pictures in my head, alighting.

I cry. Waiting.

Hoping you will recognise my Betty Davis eyes.

You ?
ordering fresh for two please both knowing that if you touch me or were to put your ?
finger on it

there

wouldn?t be a trace, or a trickle but a river pouring.

?
?

Lines on boredom

As I write
this I am bored.

Try shifting feet and changing tenses.

Bored with the intolerable afternoon heat pressing heavily

against my apartment walls.

Bored with the choice between the insufferable

dark of inside and the overwhelming brightness of the sun.

Bored with money
and the perfection that it buys

Armani, Laura Biagiotti,

Gucci, Krizia, MaxMara,

Missoni, Prada, Trussardi,

Valentino and Versace, to
name but a few.

Bored with paradise which closes for two

hours of enforced habitual eating.

Bored with dodging pigeons and the endless photographers who

insist that I am beautiful even though they have seen me when
I am not.

What could
we do tonight?

I?d offers you many entertainment opportunities

a comprehensive variety of bars,

drink wine

to while away your time???..

Ok. I am
bored with boredom in my upper overlooking storey and all that copywriting
can buy.

Shuttering out the afternoon heat.

Sipping finest red.

Yearning. yearning for the mountains.

Yet fascinated
by girls who come out at night eschewing the eyes of nuns.

White
stilettos; black-stockings; last season?s skirt; car journeys measured by the
half-life of a cigarette.

So I tear
at my stockings somewhat and put on a pair of heels.

Black holed hold-ups
?.that should pull him and smoke: the first in years.

Even if I cough I plan to ask for a light.

Every girl
should have a corner of a street.

God is smiling down allowing a Princess to stand there in a fur, left over from a journey back from tundra.

Out of
place in a sweltering day but night can
turn and it will do to cover nakedness.

Trip trapping steel tips down the two flights of stairs and I am ready for you on the corner, underneath the moonlight.

Praying you are lamp-lighting.

That you will pay or atleast take pity and offer me a light.

Think of me as small change and in need
and I will take you to the angels.

Leaning against the wall saving the singular stub from falling through the lining of
a pocket. Bored.

Try exchanging feet and shifting tenses.

Moda Donna on the outside; torn to shreds within.

Sodium oxide stripping colour of the fox to grey.

The first
approaches and she leans into its crawl.

He elbows the edge

of a wound down

windows muttering.

In the splintered seconds of her mind
he is gone.

And so another and another one.

She forgets the thousand men
who really want to fuck her.

And will suck the one who doesn?t.

The late
night air pressing down upon her in a spat across the very space in wherein she stood.

Thunder closing vacuums.

A raven?s screech heralding altered realities

And then it rained.

Her face waited to be cleansed.

A filter clinging to her mouth.

Bored.

Seared red lips like a sunset at the fag end of a
day.