Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

December 4, 2010

Post-ballgag hyperlexia

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

I stamp out his whippings like a pony. Flick: stomp. Flick: stomp, stomp. Afterward, tear-stained and distraught, I fetch him a drink. The bargirl, refilling my brother’s champage, gently wipes my face with a paper napkin.

May I? And the gem-eyed lady brushes hair out of my sticky face, strand by strand so gently.

With your words stripped away you don’t have any power left, do you? asks my brother. Forefinger & thumb held a centimetre apart, I gesture: a little. My brother’s angry I’ve contradicted him, but the lady laughs – It shows she has spirit.


November 7, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 12:54 pm

A year ago I bought a mask of red and gold painted diamonds. This Hallowe’en I played harlequin, bright servant to my lover, atop the Armory. I ask May I walk with a harlequin’s exaggerated mannerisms? and at his yes I wholly inhabit this mask. It’s as if a layer of socialization peeled off and exposed the smitten, agile girl within; allowed her to sing poetic praise, cavort and laugh, and speak with her body.

My lover is Sire or my Liege all evening; I compose slant-rhyme quatrains as he extinguishes cloves on my breasts:

Fire crackling ‘pon the night
snuffed out upon my body
All around us watch in fright
and yet it leaves me wanting

October 25, 2010

Perchance to dream

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 1:00 am

I wouldn’t mind speech restrictions, as I’ve been talking incessantly and would like to focus. I’m stripped to a pencil skirt & kept gagged for three long hours on @TheUpperFloor, guided to simplicity with a few words: You’re just a little bimbo, aren’t you?

It’s hard, isn’t it? sympathizes the beauty of the floor. Especially for hyper-intellectuals. You’re like a double dummy. Later we quote Shakespeare at each other: To Hitachi or not to Hitachi…?

Get thee to a nunnery!

October 17, 2010

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

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 6:39 pm

Revelry like Rome’s – grapes and slave-girls – atop a castle. Even boy slaves are offered at this fĂȘte; my brother requests one bend down, knowing I’d like to practice impact play. The lad obliges, smiling; with swarthy skin and gold-brown hair, he looks like the free-loving son of Demeter I invented once for a story. I’m pleased to make his bottom glow red.

It’s surreal to hold the flesh of a girl whose name I don’t know, and who doesn’t care about me. Heavy breasts. Silver-glitter eyes.

Elegant beauties become undone; the castle’s sturdy slaves are flogged two at once in their garter belts and back tats. The king receives forty-four tits in his face. Masks gleam gold and red. We eat strawberries and roast beef.

Ever see pigs’ teeth up close? Their molars are huge and grotesque. Collared & under orders, I hold back my hair and bite an apple from the mouth of a whole roast pig.

Portishead plays; fae creatures stroll the halls in fetishized materials; girls’ breasts are exposed like cream and silk and summer.

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