Suddenly somewhere someone appeared
holding a glinting dagger under Autumn’s
shivering skies. Come Lace! Come Lingerie!
Come Fellatio! She cried, while the
golden lake glimmered under the seething sun.
Be my muses! Tonight, we’ll make him spill
white before gentle rivulets of red
slowly snake their way between porcelain tiles.
Cordova Apartments, No 4, the dull moaning
aroused someone. She was next.
He’d booked well in advance.
Platinum blonde, side-swept hair, a slender frame,
she placed her ear to the door and listened patiently.
He’d booked her for 5 in the evening, but she’d done
her research, knew he had another at 4. And so,
she arrived before her slot, just for the voyeuristic
thrill, an aphrodisiac of sorts.
Come blue eyes! Come sweet lips! She thought.
I don’t play the salacious whore but pleasure
and pain are mine to give.
She walked out into the garden with a smile,
plucked a hyacinth and slowly picked the petals:
one for a lover and another for a fling,
one for beauty and another for elegant gore,
one for tenderness and another for fear,
one for muted sighs and another for muffled cries,
one for the white and another for the red,
one for his gentle touch and another because he’s dead.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)