Connections II

Photo borrowed from Antoine d'Agata

Photo borrowed from Antoine d’Agata


Dowsing

His hot breath lingered on her neck as he kissed her, smelling faintly of wine and sexual tension. His arm was drawn taut like a bow, his expert fingers an arrow piercing the soft folds between her thighs. Without knowing her, he knew how to make her beg for him, for him to enter her. To join her, to penetrate her in the deepest possible way. To connect, become one.

Full-circle.

His long, graceful fingers gently slid into her. Index, pointer, thumb.

The sheer force of his forearm, born through countless hours of sport and labour, made her rapidly catch her breath. He was winding her up like a clock and she gradually felt herself leaving her own body, leaving the bed they shared. Rising. Her spirit took flight, searching for a better vantage point. In a high corner of the sparsely decorated room, she took refuge, safely watching from a distance.

Her thoughts raced incoherently. She imagined her own rambling ideas like porridge in a fairy tale, overflowing out of her mind, filling the room, the house, the street, the whole noisy city. His strong fingers, wrist, forearm were gaining momentum. She felt as if he might be able to levitate her entire body through his fierce determination alone. Yet from her corner of the ceiling she could see that her body, fragile shell, was connected to the soft, rumpled sheets. Connected to him. On the canvas of her mind she saw Chinese hand shadow art, his three fingers drawn into the form of a beautiful swan or a heron, pecking madly at her inner-most self. Relentless bird!

She felt herself losing ground, sliding down a steep slope with nothing to hold on to. Awful human sounds made her cringe as tears, a sob, welled up inside of her. And then…she could not be sure if it was he who had released her, or if really she had released herself. All was wet, flowing from her into babbling brooks, small streams, rivers, seas, oceans. A fine mist of her filled the room, rising up all the way to her safe place in the corner of the ceiling.

She hadn’t realized before that he knew where to find her source.

 

Epigram by Samuel Shepard (1651)

Virgula Divina

“Some Sorcerers do boast they have a Rod,
Gather’d with Vowes and Sacrifice,
And (borne about) will strangely nod
To hidden Treasure where it lies;
Mankind is (sure) that Rod divine,
For to the Wealthiest (ever) they incline.”

 

22 comments

  1. etoile31

    Voilà qyui est Beau comme un Printemps……..

    Un bras armé du Désir en quelque sorte….,

    C’est puissant,

    Un Homme à la Barre en fait

    Aux Manœuvre d’une Goélette

    D’Apparences légère….

    mais faisant bon poids (de féminité, quand même….

    Je vous le dit comme je le pense,

    “Prudence”,

    Les mers de nos jours sont

    infestées de Pirates…..

    de Corsaires….

    on parle

    à demi-mots

    d’un “Capitaine-Crochet”….

    et d’un certain Nelson,

    dit “n’a qu’un Oeil”….

    Bah!

    • pivoine68

      Mais…comment ça se fait? Tes commentaires sont toujours plus poétiques que mes textes! Je réfléchis à ton conseil. Tu as certainement raison.

      Bises,
      Dawn

      • etoile31

        Cé pourtant bourré de fautes d’orthographe mon texte/commentaire,

        la honte….,

        j’ai du écrire ça depuis mon smartphone……

        Sachez Ma-Dame que c’est bien de la Lecture de Votre texte,

        que le Mien s’est Imp-Osé……..

        à l’expression, qui vous est clairement destinée,

        En ce sens

        du Désir,

        de l’érotisme

        de la sensualité textuelle

        et sexuelle

        auquel votre puissant billet

        fait référence….

        Cela dit,

        Si vous cherchez une Crique où vous réfugiez….

        vous la préfèrerez peut-être

        à un Fjord…….

        ne serait-ce que faire

        des économies vestimentaires…….

        Mes bras sont chauds,

        mes épaules,

        douces et parfumées….

      • pivoine68

        :). En fait, je voudrais être adorée tout simplement. Ça et publiée. Et un petit peu célèbre mais pas pour la masse populaire, pour une audience réduite, sélect…je voudrais être une écrivain pour laquelle le goût est acquit. (C’est un mot? Je bois trop de vin. Ça me brouille.)

  2. etoile31

    Oui, un “acquit”,

    c’est aussi un reçu que l’on te remet,

    lorsque tu vas chercher du pinard chez un producteur,

    Tu vois l’Esprit, quoi,

    Bois encore un coup, t’as mis dans le Mille

    (comme quoi t’es pas vraiment bourrée…),

    mais cé plutôt réussi,

    je trouve moi comme célébrité….

    Au feux du Désir, je sais pas si on peut vraiment bronzer…….

    chuis pas un spécialiste…..

    Ça donne chaud, ça oui, je confirme, j’affirme….

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