Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

July 24, 2011

Roots in the ground, knife at my thigh

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 4:16 pm

My love with sun-brown hands plants trees to bear fruit in the coming years. My land will have pears and honey, apple and pomegranates and white roses. How long until we have apples? I ask. There will be a few next year. Taking pocket-knife from my daisy dukes, he cuts the roots and branches of a pear tree into my thigh. Each bud is pressed in with the knife-tip and I cry out thinking this is right; growth is painful.

His eyes are blue and grey like steel; they are turned on me with intent, intelligent predation.
Masturbate. And when my own green eyes deflect,
Look at me.

I look. I carry a sort of dark arrow, which I cannot placate and which turns towards desire like a compass flame, anarchic and disregarding of human bonds and laws. It turns with such great and naked want towards him that I am shamed, and its fire is stoked by this shame.

Get the shaft wet. And when he comes he says perfect; perfect.
That was perfect.


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.

January 21, 2011


Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 2:16 pm

There’s a photograph of you, forearms bound in a double column of hemp. It’s my first tie. The sunlight streams onto your hands, illuminating the fingertips soft white. Your wedding ring gleams with a diamond of sun.

There’s an image of us in the fractured mirror. Licking my come from your wedding ring will fuck with my head forever…

There’s a photograph of you, receiving her at the base of the stairs. She is on the lowest step, navel exposed in a casual shirt. You’re wearing a kilt. It’s summer.

There’s a photograph of you kissing her in the kitchen. It’s late afternoon. You’re almost silhouettes, grey; I can see the outline of your tongue, her hair, your shirt-pockets.

Leather, you said, and rope. But rings of metal are the everyday fetish object, a commonplace sick-puppy perversity of ownership and oath. They’re a fantasy of bondage. And it’s the sickest fantasy I have: sicker than drinking your piss, being beaten bloody, being pierced by five hundred feathered needles.

Love is the best edgeplay there is.

December 26, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 12:20 am

Some of the most poignant moments you’ll never see. They come when I dream of you, though I’m never so many hours away.

In the glow of golden Christmas light, I search for one last present for you. The kitten bit your scarf so I’d like to get another. Moving through shops, I’m overcome by the lights and the attention of shopboys, the piles of sweaters and scarves which are not fine enough. The cues of masculinity, leather and scent and heavy things, surround me with the thought-obliterating hum of fetish; whether I’d like to wear them or have sex with the man who does is unimportant. Perhaps this fetish for the gentleman’s icons is part of my boyish androgynous streak.

But I see all of this desire in relation to you; it flushes my cheeks walking between men’s underwear and shirts, and understanding how what you do fits the Platonic form of what they design and package. You can’t buy dominance. I want to please you and to find something fit for you, and a confusing terror of desire is burning my cheeks as I walk from store to store.

I find scarves, one in a shade of grey you might like. It’s very soft, cashmere; and I am overwhelmed with the sense this isn’t good enough; not that you would dislike it, or that I find it wanting, but – what do you buy the man you bleed and cry and suffer for day by day?

I kneel to him and I whisper mine into his hair while he sleeps; and the echoes of commerce I saw and didn’t understand as a child now come to shape – it is for this sense of devotion grown-ups buy ridiculous things, and sacrifice themselves, and the freedoms they might have while alone.

Moving in the world of items and goods, I understand and covet the form of masculinity, and you are this to me: strong hands and teeth to rip me apart. Last night I looked in a mirror which framed my back and ass, a deep curve shadowed with evening and indolent with sex; marked red at the shoulders where you grabbed me, smudged red up the spine where you came upon my smeared blood, and red again between my legs where my womb spills monthly.

So I bought you a scarf.

December 3, 2010


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

I didn’t understand why you called me sister but played along, dynamicfucked in Citadel’s dungeon. I read your diary, little sister…
Even the parts about kissing boys? You.. didn’t see what I wrote about you, did you?
Amateurish roleplay with a Hitachi between my thighs – but it wasn’t a game.

You asked me to be part of a (nascent) leather family and I didn’t understand – I’m still learning to understand. I gave you half a yes in collar, as it fit us, and the other half free.

Why do you call her sister?
Because she is my sister.

Kinship is our underlying dynamic. We each cultivated strange strengths, sustaining and alienating ourselves, and recognized these in each other. We’ve known long spans of solitude and we have taken Occam’s razor to our senses of sexuality, art, and societal liberation. We have burnt the unnecessary over and over, which kept the sacred accessible within us.

Upon a foundation of dust we placed a primal mindfuck or a wonderful magick, and it works.

I hit my jerk big brother: I hate you, I hate you, I hate boys.

I love you.

November 16, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 1:04 pm

Like a sea-creature clinging to her rock, I wrap around you in crazy strong orgasm; you take so much it’s physically inexpressible in mere climax.

I speak in tongues, and the neighbors must think you keep a demoness. Our aftermath is a silence so profound even the words I love you seem profane.

October 16, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 12:52 pm

You’re beautiful.
{smile} You’re powerful.

October 2, 2010

I can never die

Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 10:42 pm

There are two men I keep in my heart: Hades and Daedalus. I negotiated the privilege of being co-topped by them.

For 1.5 hours they hurt me, using canes in symmetry and floggers with the drumbeat of songs. Daedalus uses a smile of wild beauty & teal, shining eyes.
Hades’ lips comfort and console me. Daedalus’ chest supports my head. Hades’ boots keep me in position; his countenance fearsome and controlled.

They beat me through fire and heaven; Dragula comes on the speakers.

Devil on your back
I bare my teeth and growl at Daedalus, believing it: I can never die.

September 21, 2010

How we kissed that day I made pomegranate/chocolate cake

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 10:50 pm

More, pressed against the stove and more


wax pouring from the lotus candle-holders

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.

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