Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

December 25, 2013

Midwinter

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 10:00 pm

Mute hands, sensitized by the rarity of touch. Palms turned down they complete a smitten circuit to earth ground, frosted and strewn with redwood needles. Orion arcs overhead. This place is a comic example of the persistence of memory. In my heart it was a fireplace, cavernous as focus turns things, and light and shadows playing in pools of bone. In my heart it was a staircase to the snow, a lone house in the wild woods, some narrow road to pagan peace.

In reality, like Dali’s clocks un-melted, it was a cabin with rooms of standard size among a row of like buildings. There was a strip of parking. The fireplace was smaller. Memory has its own poetic honesty.

Mute hands, numb with midwinter cold. Once I wrote of being a conduit. Everything flows over me and through me, into the ground, yet is recreated continually. I suppose then I am a source, not merely wires. Here in the forest I join a complete circuit; cold, crying, calling for an ancestral spirit.

He comes and walks me back inside.

July 1, 2011

Where the deer lie

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 2:22 pm

In your truck in the country. May I please come, Brother?
Open your eyes and look at the stars.

I want to marry him. As we speak I brush my hair to hide my face; it is set like stone to mask a desire which turns me eminently vulnerable. It would kill me to be twice divorced, he says. And, I did not know that was something you wanted. I would ask you to marry me right now… I want you to be happy, sweetie. In all the richness of life.

Sweat and dirt and labour. I’ve been committed to you for a while now. He nails up the address sign, two top buttons of a white shirt undone.

The kitten Maize, smelling of sweet tall grasses, runs in our tracks to the field.

October 19, 2010

The apple in a whole roast pig’s mouth: morning

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 9:00 am

Rainy silverlit morning floods in & turns our blankets brilliant shades of themselves: blue, black, bright violet and amber. Green and cream. We sleep in a rainbow, kitten snuggling between our bodies.

Still collared, I scramble eggs; adding black pepper & pepper jack while you beat me amusedly. One of us gets breakfast.

October 14, 2010

Pear brandy

Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 12:00 am

Two aperitif glasses, once filled with blood & Haiku, are now used over & over in a ritual the length of one bottle. It takes ten days. At the end are slices of brandy-drenched pear, with vanilla ice cream to cut the alcohol sting.

We nudge the kitten (Maize) away from it, laughing; I’m sitting on the counter in a polka-dot dress, legs wrapped around you.
Maize is pushed away again when she noses about my thighs, curious what your fingers are doing inside of me; she curls on my chest as waves of pleasure come. The kitten is undeterred by orgasm. We’re probably pretty animal at that moment, so it’s okay.

You’re so attuned to my blood, hand pulling continuous waves from me like you’re spinning an infinite thread from the rough chaos I carry within, and taking it into yourself. Like a god, kneeling over me, built strongly; working magicks with my come and your hands and the power of being able to grant pleasure.

Worship my cock, you say.

September 12, 2010

In this silence I believe

Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 7:44 pm

It’s hard to talk about life lately, as it’s so surreal and I’m half-afraid if I put it into words I’ll jinx it. May take exceeding discipline to handle everything right.

You stop my breath against the leather strips of your flogger. What are you smelling?
I give half a dozen answers. That’s much more eloquent than the answer I was looking for.
What were you looking for?
You’re smelling /my leather…

That’s eloquent as well. More so. Like black, allspice, and chocolate; it evokes something rich as gingerbread cookies; with the bite of spice and warmth of a family kitchen.

Listening to Miro and Metric in your lap, déjà vu comes forward out of the long-ago. I’m as comfortable in your hands as in my own, & as pleased or more. The hours turn from blue to black. I ask you politely to give me space, bind my athame to my heart.

Words are flowing out like endless rain, sings Fiona Apple. The heart of the world tree is cut deeper into my chest. Getting up I pour black peach tea and re-join you naturally, it is a repeated refrain; I love this like a song, or fine chocolate: with genuine desire, desirous of more.

September 1, 2010

Hearth

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 1:23 pm

You know the stories where folk are brought through complex trajectories so they may come together, ready, at the perfect moment in time? I’m thinking about that. My home glows with fairy lanterns; around us is slung rope, burnt candles, and songs; altar and a router. I like minimalism. Wait, we can’t live together! It would be an unbelievable quotient of magic in one place. But.

The best thing about fairytales, I say, is that they’re so much better than the real world when you’re young; then when you grow up, you realize they’re just pale approximations of life. But. It is a repeated process of yearning for your fairytales, then outdoing them.

August 25, 2010

Grain moon

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 12:32 pm

July moon you set me aflame. August moon you come to this hearth; clove burning to a black stub in my hand as I hold you in comfort, or welcome.

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