Archive for Lust

Consequences

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 21, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Fitful light flickers about, defining shapes more from shadow than illumination. It wouldn’t matter much, as I’m well familiar with the landscape of an artist’s room, bare floorboards, paint chipped cupboards, a table with mixmatched legs, two lonely chairs, small, narrow bed with rumpled sheets. They never change much, perhaps the decorations a bit, but in all the centuries, for every one I’ve walked into, they’re all the same. Perhaps they come as a kit of some kind when you buy your brushes or first slab of clay.
What light that is cast shimmers over the artist’s skin, cold, coruscating flames writhing over bare shoulders, limning the line of the spine, seething upwards from the brows in a crown of colors unseen and undreamt of. The floor around his bare feet is littered with brushes, palette knives, crumpled rags, the shed detritus of creation, all of it showered in weird sparks raining from frenzied fingers scratching at canvas, piles and drifts of madness making it seem that he’s standing in a puddle of live coals. It is far too much, not right at all.
I approach slowly, looking over his shoulder. The canvas is a mire of brush strokes, cuts, finger slashes, the paint nearly an inch thick in places, layered, textured, water colors mixed with acrylics mixed with oils mixed now with thick, dark streaks of blood. His breath is labored, what May once have been a skinny but well sculpted chest is now a collapsing caricature of itself, rising and falling in paper bag rattles. Sweat gleams over taught skin, pale, almost waxen yet not, somehow less, like badly rendered tallow, rancid and running. He clearly can’t see any longer, not the canvas or the room at least, his eyes wide, the whites only nail pairing crescents around the edges of iris and pupil. This has been going on for days. I purse my lips, turning my eyes to follow his.
Lounging upon a rug, clothing discarded in a heap upon a third chair, completely nude glimmers a slim, perfect creature, long hair flowing in perfect summer honey cascades down rounded shoulders, narrow cheek bones sharp, alien, yet still beautiful, mouth set in a decadent pout. I shake my head, impatient, vexed, dealing with the fae is always a tedious task.
“Let him go” the words resound in the dim room, a clap of thunder within a space that over days has been accustomed only to scraps and breath.
“Why should I?” Petulance drips with every syllable. “He’s lovely, and so full of passion, so much beauty. He said he wanted to paint me, that he’d never been more inspired. I just gave him what he wanted” it doesn’t even look at me as it speaks, it’s lavender eyes looking adoringly upon the artist in the way only a predator can look upon its prey. My presence is at best a nuisance.
“I’m quite sure he would have balked more if he’d been aware of your price, but that’s entirely beside the point. You should not be here.”
“Why not? I am of the free folk, in high standing within my court, I shall do as I please, not heed the whinging of the doorman because I didn’t pay him mind, go back to your junkyard realm and leave us be, he’s got so much more to give” it purrs, stretching a languid arm out, fingers caressing the air as if running over the hollowed, fevered cheek of its “lover”. I can’t help but shudder.
“You crossed into The Real when it is not your season, The Rules are clear on this. If you don’t leave of your own will, I will have to take steps.”
It turns to me then, contempt etched upon its perfect face, lips turned upwards in a condescending sneer. “And what, pray tell, can you do ragged king? I know full well in your realm you may not be defied, but you are not in your realm now are you? You are here, in the mortal world and I am a Seelie lord in the fullness of my power.” It rises slowly, a new light, wild and green washes outward from it, lapping in waves onwards. It has a strong Glamour, making the Real shimmer and boil. I’m unimpressed, yawning slowly, pressing the back of my hand over my mouth. It reaches more deeply, tendrils of power lashing out, power that could rend a mind apart, have the target of it clawing out their eyes in adoration, or digging beneath their ribs to make a gift of their heart.
“Poor fool, get thee gone swiftly, your better gives you leave, tattered magpie, I fear you not!!!”. My coattails flutter out behind me, the force it exerts rising to a gale, blowing up strange shapes out of the dust. Everything to excess with them, the fair folk, no subtlety whatsoever. Rare that a member of Summer’s Court should be so cruel and rapacious, but no matter. I allow it to feel it’s triumph, for a moment at least, the threads of enchantment tugging at my clothes yet finding no purchase.
“Are you finished?” As I watch the expression change from arrogant gloating to incredulity I continue gathering The Boarderlands closer, seeping inward on soft feet. What most seem to forget whenever I’m called upon to fulfill my duty is that all a boarder is is a line between things. You can always just redraw the line wherever it’s needed, my realm is only ever a shadows thickness away. Whilst my Seelie was so full of his stolen passion and power, I was calling it towards me. It hadn’t even noticed the room changing, the walls falling away, replaced by brambles and Victorian lampposts and other oddities that could be perched upon. Since it seemed bent on resisting to the last, I feel its destruction should serve some useful purpose, and the brethren hadn’t feasted so well in a long time.
As the Real fades, they come, inky feathers whispering, alighting on branches, ruffs standing out stiff, gleaming blue black, silent save for a small croak here and there. Bead eyes all focused on the fae, now seeming small, it’s nakedness now painfully apparent, casting its glance about itself now, a cornered small animal within a tight ring of ravens and crows. It’s power lashes in fits, yet here, as my realm is neither here nor there, not the bright fields of Arcadia or the drab pavements of the mundane, the green tendrils fade into the smoke they always were. Skergaal, my seneschal alights upon my shoulder, bowing.
“You called us my lord?”
“Do what is needful, leave me two, but let the rest feed” I turn then, as Skergaal lifts from his perch, replaced one on either side by two others. I walk away with my hands clasped behind my back, unhurried, as the croaking grows louder, the suserous of feathers impatient.
“No, no, you cannot!!! I am a lord, you do not dare…no, please, please no!!!” One by one, The Murder lives up to its name, beaks and claws tearing as the brethren descend, eclipsing the bright, shining fae inside a clot of night that writhes and screams…the screams will go on for some time, and that part makes me smile a grim smile. I don’t kill often, nor with pleasure, but cruelty sometimes must be answered in kind. The shrieks echo away as I let The Boarder fade, rising back towards the artist’s rooms.
The poor boy is on his knees, weeping, hands dripping paint and blood, his hair limp in front of his eyes. Lost, broken, arms akimbo, fingers flexing in spasms, the discarded toy of a spoiled child. I kneel down, gently lifting his head, looking into his eyes, hoping, but not much. He had been ravaged so hard, if anything other than insanity looked back at me I’d be astonished. Yet, there, far in the back, a slim flicker, some remembrance of who and what he used to be before he was just a vessel to be drunk from. The crows hop from my shoulders to his lightly, dipping thier heads as if to whisper into either ear, yet their sharp beaks slide into his temples without resistance. Normally, when I gather to me my treasures, I never take the thing itself, just the form it impresses upon the never. This time though, it would be monstrous to leave him with these memories.
“You’ve been ill my boy, very ill indeed, a deep fever that’s left you weak, given you such foul dreams, but it is past now, the fever broken. You will mend, rest, be whole again soon.” As Memory and Thought do their work I lift him up, guide him to his bed. He’s frail, but will recover. I should have been more alert, perhaps I should spend less time on my hobbies, maybe I could have prevented any lasting damage. These violations seem to come more and more frequently, despite ancient treaties and Rules. A sign of the times perhaps.
I turn, taking in the canvas at last. Carved through the paint is a slim figure, once pale but now streaked with red, deep tissue purple, flesh hanging in rags, hanging from a thorn bush, formerly regal features twisted into a rictus, screaming agony forever. It has to be said, the boy has talent, it’s an incredible likeness. I take the painting, waste not, want not, and I stride back into The Boarderlands, leaving not a trace.

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Her

Posted in Previously published elsewhere, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I actually wrote this a little while ago just on my tumblr blog as a sort of exercise, but I like how it turned out as this little prose piece so I thought I’d put it up here as well.

Ok, so here’s the deal. I like breasts. No, I love breasts, and thighs, and bellies, and hips, and buttocks. I am addicted to the artwork of a woman’s body, I just am. I know there is vastly more to any individual than the accidents of their physical form, intellectually I know this. Yet still, when I see a woman, her curves whether subtle or overt, I find myself entranced. It is an entirely shallow obsesstion, and I must admit I feel guilty, a part of the problem, just one more greasy pig fumbling in my pants, panting and salivating. I can’t help myself though, as my eyes linger just a little too long on the bow of her lips, the column of her neck, perhaps the small of her back, any women, all women, describing beauty and grace. They’re everywhere too, just stealing every breath I have, all of them, all of the time. I don’t know what they’re doing with all of it, but I’d like to have at least some back because it’s hard to go through life drowning.
There’s never any thought of possession though, no covetous, greedy, grasping and clutching. I’m just happy that they’re there, out there, going to the shops, working, laughing, living, doing the things we all do but making this world just that much more lovely. So quietly, I look, maybe smile a bit, wonder to myself what it might be to run my fingers through her hair or what her skin might smell like after a day spent out in the rain. Any her, all of the hers out there, that are or were or will be, in all of the forms and hues. I can’t help it, for me the definition of beauty is and can only be her. I don’t know what that means, or what that makes of me and trust me, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about it, but in the end all I know is, well, that I love breasts…and bellies and thighs and curves and smiles and everything that forms the shape of her on this earth.

Rag Doll

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2014 by beautifulimposter

I am emotional shrapnel
The IED you stumbled into
Poor fragile thing
All porcelain waiting to be shattered
A field of snow yielding sudden blooms
Of blood roses, wet and red as mouths
Ragged lips I could twist
My hungry tongue between
Sucking on your pain
Another sinister surgeon
Turning your body to biohazard
Wearing your feeble beating heart
In twists of rusty barbed wire
Pinned to my lapel.

I was shamed by your purity
By your luminescence
All my ugly twisted broken
Was laid bare
I could not stand up under the
Glorious weight of your skin
Crawling wretched you could have
Crushed me with one dainty heal
Yet your pity stayed the blow
Leaving me all the room I needed
To run broken bottle fingers
Deep through the ribbons of you.

You spent the last of your breath
In forgiveness
You wouldn’t even leave me
The satisfaction of your hatred
Slipping away leaving me nothing
A poor child weeping in the night
Clutching a bloody rag doll
That was never really you.

Voices of October, Lust, Heaven, and Disrepute

Posted in Poetry, Spoken Word with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2014 by beautifulimposter

The Sins of an Idle Mind (or What I Do In Your Abscence)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2014 by beautifulimposter

I lay alone, in absent reverie

When of a sudden

Your thighs thunder crashing

Filled mind’s eye horizon,

Amphorae wine brimming

Fair and lush gardens

‘Neath silver cool moonlight.

Oh, how I thought,

And hard

A sudden fleshy exclamation

To be discovered by mischievous hands

With throaty wicked chuckle

Each time you taking such delight

In forging clay to such steel.

My tongue, roguish, ribald

Went wand’ring ‘pon your hills and valleys

Teasing sighs from the hollows

Of your delightfully ticklish places

Singing wicked ditties

Coated thick in sudden honey.

I became lost

Following the map of your skin

Trails followed endless twists and
turns

By lips and hands bent on discovering

All if the mysteries betwixt the folds

Of soaking bedclothes

And the fulsome plump furrow

A row urgent for the tilling.

I wrote a symphony

With your sighs and moans and

Sweet soft shudderings

Our bellies clasped

Breath tangled along with your hair

And my beard, fingers knotted at the knuckles

Bodies cat’s cradle of limbs

A portrait of abandon.

I was longing

An emblem of yearning with no surcease

A helpless groan carved in flesh

Until my own hands

Drew forth quivering sob

Relief without satisfaction

New milk spilt

Wanting only your tongue to taste.

Devastation In A Little Black Dress (Variation)

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on August 20, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Whiskey amber loose string guitar whine

Slow dirty dancing

Hips keeping metronome strict time

Swaying alone under cool blue light

Tick-tocking sticky limbic light switch

Reptilian hind brain licking hungry

Fingers running through chocolate ribbon hair

Plucking strings anchored to my bones

Pulling magnetic irresistible

Hush, honey hush lips feral curve

Flash ivory promise razor blade mouth

A warning, a promise

A streak of red, ripe need painted

In sharp bold strokes

Yet needless, heedless, brazen as brass

Slavering wolves tied to her heel

Throats exposed, choking on desperate last call howls

Eyes clinging close as slick silk little black dress

All paired slaves helpless pinned

Desperate, panting, sweat groaning

Her body shedding all attempts at amateurish fumble pawing

A drawn blade laying open every vein

Fresh blood washing away all lingering traces

Of any fingerprints that could have laid claim

Free and wild and savage

Atop a heap of fallen bodies.

She knows you’re watching

She just doesn’t care

None of this is for you, silly boys

Spilt useless seed dripping down your pant leg

You can hear it in every movement

That’s pulling your body to shreds

The silent, haughty “fuck you”

Driving hard nails deep

Your pathetic lust hanging trophy

Red drops to be carelessly flicked clean

By a tongue that has no need

To ever taste your name.

Devastation In A Little Black Dress

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 20, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Whiskey amber loose string guitar moan

Hips keeping metronome time

Tick-tocking limbic slow

Reptilian hind brain light switching

Steel wire tugging

Pulling bone deep

Fingers running wanton

Through chocolate ribbon hair

Lips curling silent visceral snarl

Revealing glimpse of dainty ivory

Lethal sharp hunger

A promise, a warning

Body free of eyes clinging tighter

Than silken fall of little black dress.

Alone, singular, proud

A naked blade

Opening every vein in the joint

Fresh blood washing clean

Any previous possession of
fingerprints

All futile claims upon flesh

Might as well attempt to hold

A dancing flame

One way or another

She will consume you

Swallowing whole every last inch

Licking the scraps clean

With a tongue that has no need

To ever taste your name.

Indifference drips

In every move whispers “fuck you”

To all the sweaty, panting boys

Desperate fumbling themselves

In the shadows cast

By her, flickering scarlet streak

Laughing as they spill useless seed

Down pant legs slobber soiled

Needless and heedless

Breaking them all to pieces.

You will never have her

Even if she permits you

To kneel quivering at her heel

Hands trembling supplicant

To the tease of her hem

All you will ever be

Is her victim

Don’t ever fucking forget it.