The Illuminated Woman

[darkmaas]

The Illuminated Woman - A CHALLENGE

The CHALLENGE starts on post number 8

::

Dearest Babylon, I’m worried ‘bout
the brooding soul that we call Sophie.
Her phone is off and she’s not left
even a whisper trail through the ether.

Armand darling you are so cute
when worry makes your forehead crease.
She has taken off on contract
to a wealthy and eccentric
gentleman, a man of certain tastes
in literary lust and letters.
She is fine.
Would you be so kind and freshen up
my glass?

But Babylon
Who is this man?
And what of lust?
Contract for what?

He is Jakob, you met him once
at the Belevedere Hotel.
He has not aged, a timeless soul
dark and deeply twisted
but very rich.
Perfect for our Sophie.
My drink?


::

 

[darkmaas]

I do remember Jakob
and Esperanza
a nutty pair
too sly by half
What is this contract?

Nothing very serious dearest.
She’s rented him her skin
but only for a while.
Have you gone deaf?
My glass is very empty.

I beg your pardon?

My drink?

No her skin?

::

 

[darkmaas]

It’s the new millennium
darling, people do this sort of thing.
Craigslist or Kijiji
sell your soul or rent your skin
a few more weeks we’ll dine with her
share a drink, get all the gossip.
This shaft of moral rectitude
Where did you find it, Love?
It’s tiresome and I’m still thirsty.

But what’s he doing with her skin?

Poetry of course.

::

 

[darkmaas]

::



Next installment on the way. Patience.




::

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

My face is gedding purble frob holding by breath............

 

[darkmaas]

Poetry?

Sigh. You know.
The stuff of rhymes and meter.
Squeezing the language for the last
bitter drops of meaning.

Give me your glass.
You’ve lost me dearest.
I can’t fathom half the stuff
that bubbles from the fecund depths
of that sea you call a mind.

He loves her skin.
She rarely leaves the house
and has no tan lines.
A smooth unbroken surface
and ample room
for fifty thousand characters
that caress her every curve
from her neck down to her ankles.



::

 

[darkmaas]

Some nights he just stares at her
moves the light
and stares some more
or he may run a finger
along one of her bones
to test the texture
or maybe just to check the lie
like some golfer on a tricky green

Other nights he may do a thousand words


::

 

[darkmaas]

I wasn't sure where this was going when I started and I'm less sure now.

Let us see if the wisdom of crowds extends to erotic poetry.

I have a vision of what Sophie's epidermis layer looks like. You, my dear reader, hopefully do as well. Let's embark on a challenge:

Sophie's Challenge

It's simple really ... write an erotic poem suitable for inscription on a willing (and to my eye at least) extremely worthy pelt.

No other rules but a comment. There seems to be subliminal attachment between "alabaster" and "skin" in this context. I've had to edit no fewer than three alabasters from the above posts. Fair warning.

Commentary is welcome.

::

 

[butters]

giving this a try. erotic poetry's not a strength of mine

sophie's skin

yours is the light of snow on the moon
cajoling stars
making promises
from afar
and yet
beneath
there beats a pulse
that
should it break the surface of my thoughts
would blossom
carmine lotus
and snow would know it only stands enhanced

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Some lovely stuff here d'maas, very intriguing.

Sophie Poses

She is content to pose
in his varied light,
sometimes coolly critical
moonlight or urgently, electrically
erotic. He seldom touches her,
his hands restless among his
clothing although his eyes
draw every curve and angle.
To test him she will open
thighs, arms, lips. If he
is tempted he looks away
only to return to her closed
body languidly naked, a Da Vinci
smile curving his way. He cannot
fathom if it is desire or wantonness,
if she is nymph to his satyr
and he hides his desire from her
but she knows her power
and reaches out to touch it
as he flinches away. Tomorrow,
tomorrow he may allow
her hand to settle but, for now he
tortures them both.

 

[The_Fool]

Some might call it symbiotic:
his need,
her desire to please.

Calling something normal
ranks right up there
with calling something good
or bad.
But normal was not
what they had.

Bite marks and whip welts
were too transient
for his desire to mark,
her desire to show
her obligation.

Which is why
she ended up with
wings inked upon her back.
strange fingers
and cold metal
invading her sex.
Real tears
upon her face.

 

[Angeline]

It looks rather like a harem in this thread. I thought I'd drop off some theme music. I remember hearing it often as a child and thinking it awesome (before that word got all overused), awe-inspiring music.

Oh look! There's cushions and a tambourine. And an oud.

 

[darkmaas]

Oh look! There's cushions and a tambourine. And an oud.

Enter stage left ... Barbara Eden in harem pants and Larry Hagman carrying a bottle of India ink ... <canned laughter> ...

 

[darkmaas]

Ah Foolio, a darker look at my poor Sophie.

Pour yourself a double ...

... "to poetry"



::

 

[darkmaas]

Sophie Poses
... for now he
tortures them both.

I like your Sophie ... and your delicious torture ... all between the ears.

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

I like your Sophie ... and your delicious torture ... all between the ears.

It all happens between the ears, really. Barbara Eden has put me right off.

 

[The_Fool]

I like your Sophie ... and your delicious torture ... all between the ears.

He used a sharpie,
to make it somewhat permanent.
He placed her on the bed
while he wrote
on her back.
He wouldn't say,
she couldn't ask.
Words worry her.
Sometimes he lies,
most times not.
With very little expression.
She has learned not to question.
She may check it in the mirror,
tomorrow,
when he has left.

 

[The_Fool]

Don't mind me, I am just spewing out shit here.

Enigmatic woman,
that only emotes
with her eyes.
What sorrow sings
in your soul
that hides your smile.
The warmth of your voice
offers your love.
Your hand's caress,
your passion.
When sad,
you simply turn away.
Anger has no measure.
I wonder what would crack
that stoic image.
What song or saying
would make you soar
on wings of laughter.

 

[darkmaas]

sophie's skin
...
there beats a pulse
that
should it break the surface of my thoughts
would blossom
carmine lotus
and snow would know it only stands enhanced

I've been rereading this over and over since you posted it. I'm charmed ... the beating pulse, the carmine lotus and snow ... as I said to 'tess ... all between the ears. Thanks.

 

[darkmaas]

Barbara Eden has put me right off.

Awww. I couldn't resist. I once wrote an art history essay on Scheherazade as a western erotic fantasy. I finished off with "I Dream of Jeanie". The prof was not amused.

Angeline (with her oud) has a lot to atone for (although she probably forgets). She is the the only person to have met Jakob. He was, at the time, a secondary character in a story I wrote and asked her to critique. Her comment was, "Lose the creepy butler." I did and Jakob has never forgiven her.

I digress...

::

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Awww. I couldn't resist. I once wrote an art history essay on Scheherazade as a western erotic fantasy. I finished off with "I Dream of Jeanie". The prof was not amused.

Angeline (with her oud) has a lot to atone for (although she probably forgets). She is the the only person to have met Jakob. He was, at the time, a secondary character in a story I wrote and asked her to critique. Her comment was, "Lose the creepy butler." I did and Jakob has never forgiven her.

I digress...

::

......and what happened to that African Violet we knew and loved a few years back?

 

[darkmaas]

......and what happened to that African Violet we knew and loved a few years back?

Violetta flourishes. She occasionally pines for the "hurley-burley" days of "New Poetry Reviews" but she's now the senior violet upstairs and is trying for a more matronly persona.

Violetta (for those who are wondering about the strange turn of this thread) is an African violet with bright pink "double" flowers who used to assist with the new poetry reviews. She chaffed at being second fiddle to the late Viola who had more common single flowers.

We return you to your regular programing ...

::

 

[Angeline]

Awww. I couldn't resist. I once wrote an art history essay on Scheherazade as a western erotic fantasy. I finished off with "I Dream of Jeanie". The prof was not amused.

Angeline (with her oud) has a lot to atone for (although she probably forgets). She is the the only person to have met Jakob. He was, at the time, a secondary character in a story I wrote and asked her to critique. Her comment was, "Lose the creepy butler." I did and Jakob has never forgiven her.

I digress...

::

Please don't make me move the oud. It's almost as big as a sitar. I'm sorry that my cultural associations with Scheherazade (which I always hear in my head when I read your Dark Feel in Wormwood) never lead me to Barbara Eden. What can I say? Mine was a more ethnic experience. Also you had a mean professor. My early English Lit prof just loved my Beowulf board game.

Perhaps a nice compromise raga instead? Everybody spin!

PS Jakob *was* creepy. Does he know you agreed with me?

 

[darkmaas]

::

Your obsession with her skin
amuses me, Armand.
Her pale vellum
adorned with hieroglyphs
is the limit of his approach.

Physically we cannot get
closer than two skins apart
without blood upon the carpet.
But words, my Maudit Beau,
words enter through the ears or eyes
and touch the mind and perhaps the soul.

Worry less about her pelt
And more about his poems.


::

 

[GuiltyPleasure]

Sophie's Secret Admirer

He will welcome her.
She will be pleased,
smile, perhaps - God
willing - kiss him,
on the cheek of course.
They will have drinks,
two, maybe three but
he must keep his head,
she is intoxicating enough.
While she sits he will
approach her from behind,
rub her neck gently and she
will lean back to him,
allow him to lean down
and kiss her shell of an ear.
From here it will be easy
to slip a hand onto the
soft mound so temptingly
displayed. She will swoon,
offer him her virtue at last.
But fisrt he must speak to her.