Poetic Scenes
A Play on Words by
SubVerse Writers
Meetings
and Partings by sub-Rowan
Household
Objects by Little Miss Sunshine
In Praise of the Dark Side by Ms. D.
Sensory
Perceptions by S.Hartwell
Devotional
to a Mistress by heather-louise lomond
A Walk
in the Paradise Garden by Beauty 123
Copyright 2000 - 2004, Individual
Authors
(unless
stated otherwise)
Scene
One: Outside.
A man
is lingering outside a house, hesitating over ringing the doorbell …
A door.
A
closed door.
In my mind. In real life. Or both?
A
risk.
A dangerous
risk.
In my mind.
In real life. Or both?
What lies behind that closed door?
Is it a door to my past?
Pain.
Nightmares.
Insecurity.
Rejection.
Is it a door to my present?
Confusion.
Shattered dreams.
Vulnerability.
Indifference.
Is it a door to my
future?
Pleasure.
Fantasies fulfilled.
Security.
Acceptance.
BDSM.
A key.
A key
to that closed door.
In my mind. In my life. Or both?
Click.
The
door opens.
In my mind. In real life.
Both.
Scene
Two: The Study.
A
woman is sitting at a writing desk, thinking and writing …
You wrote with care,
with thought
And with wit.
You showed patience, experience
And understanding.
You were honest and open
And modest.
We phoned and talked and told our tales
And laughed together.
We met and talked and talked yet more
And smiled a lot.
Time to depart: you held my hand
And kissed me.
We parted, smiled and kissed again
Just as softly.
You pulled away and I felt an emptiness.
The kiss had ended.
Your body slowly moved towards me,
Hands moving on mine.
And as your mouth again sought mine
You held my wrists.
This kiss was deeper, more intense
Communication.
The Dom had restrained the sub
With subtlety.
My body and now my mind reacted
To this gesture.
And after an eternity of silent speaking
This kiss ended.
Or had it just begun?
Scene
Three: The Hall.
A man
is putting on his raincoat, getting ready to go out …
The journey of life is meetings and partings,
As we part from the womb,
And rejoin at the breast.
Early years, many meetings,
Our parents’ friendships
Slowly, we make our own,
With luck the ties of blood a source a of
strength,
Not a source of hardship.
Now, deeper meetings,
Close friends of our choosing
Our own patterns of life.
Will I be laughed at, misjudged?
Will they think me a creep?
And could it be possible,
Acceptance, Caring, Sharing
And how will this be –
Ministry to many,
Or life with one special.
And we meet
And part
And learn.
May our meetings be hopeful
And our partings be
with love.
With the passage of time we learn,
To follow the promptings of love and truth in
our hearts,
Not the fears or the ought to’s
of others
Nor the fear and guilt in ourselves.
With the passing of fear ‘
Love’
No more means ‘I need you’
‘I love’ means ‘I rejoice at your existence on
Earth’
And the wrong we do dies with us
And the love we leave lives on with us
Even as our bodies rejoin the Earth,
When we have moved to freer living.
Scene
Four: The Kitchen.
A
woman in a dressing gown is making a cup of tea …
I
asked you to tie me and you laughed.
"No, really," I said and the splash of your shock
Rolled off the glassy tilt of my face
And pooled in the accidental lock
Of my wrists. You fastened me to the bed
With your dressing gown cord and the length
Of your body on mine made not quite gentle
Apology for the unexpectedness of strength.
I asked you to hurt me, and this time
You were prepared, any small dankness of shame
Seared through by the rough sex, by your hand
Stoppering cries of pleasure and the same
Of pain at the chafing of rope, tight on my
Strictured limbs, and the stern, dry
Bite of bulldog clips on the
Whitened intimacy of my inner thigh.
By the time you beat me, I didn't need
To ask you. Restraint had loosened its rush
Of desire, but turned my jagged voice
In on the comfort of its own secret. The hush
Of your belt swinging, its blows showering
The tinder of my skin with hot sparks.
The oasis of your gratitude
And most important, the invisible marks.
I never asked you to dress me, but
You did. By then, you were an expert,
The rhythm of you in the slither
Of my underwear, the gather of my shirt.
And in your absence, wrapped and dancing
Round each object I touch, through each empty
Space that mimics my tread and weaves
Hintful dreams with close reminders here with me:
The twists of clotheslines lying loose
Upon themselves, the diligent
Rows of black plastic on your desk.
The eyeful kitchen implements.
The thin promise of garden canes
That clatter at the bedroom door,
Impatient, as ever I will be,
To be placed into your hands once more.
Scene
Five: The Parlour.
A man
in an apron is dusting and polishing …
What if men should loudly tell
Of thoughts that in their heads do dwell
We’d hear of climbing mighty cliffs
Skiing down some snowy drifts
Soaring high with birds so free
Or diving deep down in the sea
But what i think would my thoughts say
Deeds of valour in affray?
Well maybe not for of’t i
think
Working at the kitchen sink
Of wearing cap and apron neat
And tending to my Mistress sweet
A satin dress she’d make me wear
A frilly cap pinned to my hair
And with my corset laced up tight
My apron on all shining white
I would wait on every guest
And at my mistress’s behest
I would try to always be
The humble maid she wants to see
Scene
Six: The Computer Room.
A
woman is sitting at her computer, typing away …
From a safe distance,
He spins a filament of
fantasy
a paragraph of personality,
A photograph from
yesterday
He sends you himself,
As he would like to
be,
You weave him
snakelike
Into the darkside of your desire
In an erotic
conspiracy
You braid yourself
into his fantasy,
Spin your spell like
poetry
Gift him with his
perfect woman
Down the wire.
Breathless, each day
your fingers fly
The download is an
agony,
The mail icon steals
your breath away
But the game is
fragile as a fantasy
Too soon intrudes
reality
A phone call
Unfolds the tragedy.
Shards of cybermagic shatter
This is real,
Another person,
Pandora’s box flies open,
In bitter words and
clinical,
He lays himself quite
bare to you
The fantasy flutters
briefly, and is gone.
And your cyberlover
Is just a man
In pain.
A sleepless night,
A thoughtful day
His image will not go
away.
Beneath the peeling
paint of fantasy
You glimpse his
courage and integrity
His talent, pride and
dignity
And so you show to
him yourself
Just as you are.
Scene
Seven: The Lodger’s Room.
A man sits on an unmade bed remembering last night’s
passion …
I
cover my ears
As
he enters the room
Slamming his eyelids.
He’s
dressed.
His
feet advance
Chirping to the edge of the bed.
I
shiver,
Coiled
on the pillow,
As the
shadows of his hands
Crackle
over my face.
His
fingers purr
Their way to the sheets.
Now
he gongs a smile.
Strident eyes.
Lips banging manly.
Clothes
fall growling
To the floor.
His
pupils thump the space.
I
stop breathing.
I
hear
A
rusty squeak in my crotch
As
blood loses control
And floods unwary veins.
I’m
helpless.
Ready
to jump,
His
legs whistle,
His
drool thuds.
Clanking buttocks.
Clinking thighs.
Armpits
gargle.
Nipples
creak
Cracking
hairs slash the air.
Shadow
splashes on the bed.
Deafening virility.
Shudders.
Din.
My
fingernails gnaw
The paint on the wall.
Shrill
sweat clatters
Down my chest.
Drumming. Roaring.
Clanging. Throbbing.
Rattling. Howling.
Beauty.
Mute,
the light bulb shatters.
Surrender.
Scene
Eight: The Bedroom.
A woman
is writhing under light sheets on a king-size bed …
(Dedicated to Le Comptessa)
In the haze of the
early morning
a vision of Imperfect Purity
a vision of Spoilt Beauty
lies here in this
double-bed
so close yet so distant
simply just impossible to
reach
The vision of your
ephemeral hand
your elegant arm stretched
along the Edge of the
Infinity
so Pale it dies in
these white sheets,
so Frail I want to die
with it
then like the fragments of a bomb
splattered
randomly all over your Nails,
black islands of
corruption,
black dots contour the
(existence/Universe)
of your delicate limb
The rare purity of
your essence spoilt
and at the same time
delineated, enlighten
by these anarchic and
corrosive marks.
Tarnished nail varnish taints your Innocence
Your arm lies at the
edge
your hand at the Edge of
the Edge
semi-disclosed in
an Inhuman Pose
while You lie Here
still immersed in your
Sleep,
unaware of
my Gaze,
unaware of
your Unearthly Beauty;
while I lie on your bed
ashamed by this
Gaze that I cannot avoid,
ashamed of
the Morbid attraction I feel
for your dead-like ,
seemingly life-less body
Your Elegance, Your
Weakness
Your Abandon.
Are you really Here?
(You will never suspect)
finally
touch that Hand
that lies at the Edge of
this Universe
on the Other Side of your double-bed.
Scene
Nine: The Landing.
A
frightened man sulks in the gloom …
The nightmares are frightening
so vivid and clear
The woods dark and gloomy
danger is there
I see it all around me
the red eyes are everywhere
Engulfed in darkness
I walk in fear
toward the light
I can see the bridge
beyond it is brilliant light
danger guards the bridge
in the form of a Man
not any man, the Darkman
I walk and walk
I never seem to get closer
Still I see the light
beckoning me
and Him the Darkman
mocking me
Night after night
these nightmares haunt me
just as you said
they always would
I walk and walk
engulfed in darkness
toward the bridge and
the impending battle
with Him of Darkness
and the sweet victory to be won
of you and the light
I smile continuing to walk
engulfed in darkness
I no longer fear
as I now know the reward
through the darkness I'll walk
into the light
finding
Me!
Scene
Ten: The Bathroom.
A
woman is luxuriating in a bubble bath …
Black is black,
and we all know those
who are afraid of the dark.
But black is strong and deep and nurturing.
Black is the escape of the floatation tank,
the luxurious drape of black velvet,
the depth of real night beyond all light.
To slip on that little black dress
(so simple, so flattering!)
strap on those shiny black boots
and stride out at midnight;
a black cat who may cross your path,
or stay home, blinds drawn, lights dimmed,
for times of steaming black coffee,
bitter black chocolate
and heady black hash,
to feed on the peace and isolation of night.
To fear the dark
is to fear your solitary self
. . .and who can escape their own shadow?
Scene
Eleven: The Cellar.
A man
in fetish-wear is preparing a variety of dungeon equipment …
Three
is the darkest hour,
When ghosts of chains
Rattle thin shriekings
In the caged depths
Behind wide unblinking eyes,
Staring down eternity:
Twin mineshafts of despair and pain,
Where the abyss stares back.
i feel Your eyes even now,
White-hot icy orbs
Burning holes of agony, promised,
And again,
Into my mind and heart and soul,
Flames licking ragged edges
Of wounds screaming raw and bleeding:
You feed well.
my soul writhes
In agony well-deserved
Beneath Your least glance,
Pleas silenced to ragged gasps
As You reduce me to nothing
But an extension of Your will:
i am Yours for the Taking,
Surrendered to You, my only god.
In submission i bare myself
That You may take the choisest morsels
Of my shame and pain;
You strip away my layers
With symbolic knives
Both sharp and dull:
You are Yourself the weapon
Of my destruction.
Scene
Twelve: The Playroom.
A
young woman is sitting on the floor, playing with various toys …
I imagine myself
As liquid gold
Flowing under your fingers
So easy to mould
I imagine myself
As an elastic band
Being stretched to my limits
At your Masterful hands
I imagine myself
As a lifelike doll
Easy to influence
Lead and control
I imagine myself
As a spinning top
Turning this way and that
Until directed to stop
I imagine myself
As modelling clay
A shape-changing toy
In the games that we play
I imagine myself
As a rubber ball
Curling up at your feet
Feeling humble and small
Scene
Thirteen: The Attic.
A
scruffy man is searching through cardboard boxes …
Confusion
furrows your troubled brow,
decisions bouncing off heart and soul.
Seeking the guiding hand you have felt before,
to hold your face gently and reassure.
The submissive's life is one of confusion and doubt,
questions and challenges your daily companion.
Answers and reflections, hard won victories at best,
become difficult without the Master's smiling, "Yes".
.
These challenges aren't beyond your capacity,
an inner strength will always be yours to command.
The strength that allows your deep submission,
will be focused and directed to see you through.
It isn't a weakness that binds you to confusion,
nor a lack of the strength and purpose within.
The missing catalyst is the strength of a Master,
sharing trust and honesty, reflecting power to you.
.
A Master and his submissive, a partnership of two,
have a strength far greater than either alone can feel.
Confusions and questions and decisions fade away,
when faced together, walking the path hand in hand.
Scene
Fourteen: The Utility Room.
A
woman is sorting through the laundry …
Do you love the feel of feather,
Tracing soft across your skin?
Does the fragrance of fine leather,
Put you in the mood for sin?
Maybe fur or maybe velvet,
Or an opulent sheepskin;
Is it texture? Is it odour?
Is it some sense inbetween?
Does the searing heat do something,
When you're dripped with candle wax?
Or perhaps you yearn for burning
Flogger strokes upon your back,
While your senses all are startled
By the auditory cracks,
And the stinging lines of fire
That the cane leaves in its tracks.
Perhaps you prefer ice cubes
As they trace their trails of chill,
Or the way your partner binds you
When (s)he bends you to (her)his will,
Overwhelms you with sensations,
Till your body's taut with thrill,
Then in trance you enter dreamspace,
And at last your mind is still
Scene
Fifteen: The Greenhouse.
A man
is lovingly tending his seedlings …
that night i flew,
i knelt at your feet and my soul was freed
i served you as never before
while my heart soared
and my body lived
in chains of love
you held me in bonds of strongest steel
sensitive to all your needs
powerless to your thrall
my will was yours
then i knew myself
found the dormant seed of an eternal flower
nurtured in your thoughts
i brought it forth
and let it serve
offering up my being.
to serve you now is all i'll
ever be
as my inner self desires
all that i can become
i'd give to you
i will not falter
not fail to toil towards your goals
will be here for you always
hold you when you cry
accept your pain
and make you smile
reflect your laughter in so many mirrors
help you grow towards the light
share your passion
and so much more
joy fills my days
will you embrace me in your tender arms?
will you accept what i offer
given freely in trust
my inner self?
together we have flown
together we touched the heavens mantle
found the oceans floor
trod the planets dust
and will again
Scene
Sixteen: The Dining Room.
A
woman, wearing an apron, is laying the table for one …
Your
face hidden
By
a velvet river
Of
your black hair
Used
as a veil
To
hide your tears
From
staring eyes
Down
in your Master’s garden
Under
the lonely almond tree
You
hang from branches
Dappled
in white flowers
Blossoming
and confusing
With
the knots that tie
Your
freedom
A
twined binding
Let’s
you loose
In
your subspace freedom
Slightly
shaking,
You
do the best you can
To
smile, slowly breaking
Your
mind
Soiling
the soil underneath you
With
distant drops
Of
hot tears, salty of passion
And
belonging to your
Inner,
harmless love cove,
Drowning
you in peace
And
rest.
Never
wanting to be unbound,
From
to the wild outside world,
You
are afraid alone
Wanting
to be owned
You
serve well your test, and
You
merit
To
be possessed
Scene
Seventeen: The Garden.
A man
in a suit is looking at the flowers in the late afternoon …
They stink, the halflife trains.
These freights screech through Lewisham
scattering my rats
smell of unoiled deisel
and baked dirt.
But the halflife carriages
also bear my memory's glow in their bellies
pulsing in spent fuel rods
--They are my remembrance of your grace
and radiance.
(You believe firmly
in the healing had in sex,
remember?)
An ember's memory of your look
of surprise and delicious hesitation
as I gave you early-days orders
and you found yourself compelled,
bound by the web of moment
stretched so elegantly
the bright winter sun lapping over your flesh folds
swept deeper into sensation's foam
--And so fearful for your hardwon order
your single-mum symmetry
that you pulled away
like the halflife trains
as far from the fuel rods of fresh amazement
as the ties would take you,
Back on track
spared the peril of delight
You broke the bonds of more
than our becoming:
The halflife glow from our glistened glee
in your sunbathed sitting room
(men huddling in cold shuffles barely outside our gauzed delights!)
warms me still after
burning away my need
for fresh astonishment.
Some peace.
Scene
Eighteen: The Lounge.
A
woman is sitting on the floor by the fire, writing in her journal …
Our love
burns with a dark flame
That sheds not light, but shadows
It gives not warmth, but feverish heat
Intoxicates with each heartbeat
Infection rapidly complete
Our love inhabits hope and dreams
Exists beyond the moment
Expressed in passion, fear, and pain
It suffocates, and yet sustains
I’ll never need to breathe again
Our dark love smothers seeds of strife
Dismisses fragile worries
It heals my spirit, feeds my soul
Rebuilds the wonder others stole
And so my dark joy makes me whole
I shall not spurn this burning love
Nor claw my path to freedom
Where once was pride, still there's no shame
Unspoken, but I know its name
And gladly bathe in its dark flame
Scene
Nineteen: The Conservatory.
A man
in a dressing gown is relaxing in an easy chair …
Scene
Twenty: Outside.
A
woman waits nervously outside a house, hesitating over ringing the front door
bell …
All living things desire
I live, I desire
A salve for the ache deep in the soul.
Love's flame, the
heat of the fire.
These desires may be simple to please.
A kiss, a cuddle.
They may be deeper, darker in nature.
My emotions, all in
a muddle.
Life is hard, or so they say;
Fear! Confusion!
A guide, a mentor, can show the path.
Light, dispel the illusion.
To follow this path, you must submit.
I desire to please;
The bonds of your servitude are in your mind.
At peace, on my
knees.
The mark of your growth may be plain to see,
A collar, a brand,
Or more subtle, more private, between us.
The mark of your
hand.
The path the pleasure is tortured;
Lead me you must.
Pain and denial a constant companion.
In you, I trust.
The path that we walk has no end in view,
An eternity of pleasure and pain;
But love and affection with sustain us throughout
Your pleasure, my gain!
My commands you must obey without delay.
Your voice a heavenly choir.
Tell me, slave, your hearts requirement.
I live, I desire!
ω ω ω
http://www.elle.finn.btinternet.co.uk/SubVerse.htm