That this was me:

Invictus
William Ernest Henley (1849-1903)

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

And this Catholic School Girl Gone Bad turned FemDom PhoneSex Goddess…whispers a prayer, a thank you. Someone knows and that is enough. That is everything.

I’m still slinging the smut (for your reading pleasure) over at Blistered Lips with the occasional bit of romantic erotica thrown in here and there. The latest poem:

warrior’s heart

i think of you:

your warrior’s heart
its toughened blister
-but not for me
-not ever for me

has served you well:

keeper of your flame
it’s kept your secrets
kept your seasoned wit
kept your quiet expectations
kept your easy wisdom

kept you for me
everything for me
all of you for me
always for me
forever for me

just waiting for me:

to untether its strings
puncture its wound
untangle its weave

and I am here:

so that we shall fold
this rare metal
this precious metal
this noble metal
this keeper of your heart
this weathered chain mail

and keep it safe
as it has kept you

( Michael Ondaatje)

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.

I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
— your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers…

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.

***I printed this poem at my professional site, literate smut, because I just think it is so sexy. So I thought I would share it with my readers here, too. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

your mouth

i remember your mouth
its full swell of lip
almost a girl’s

and oh those kisses
those whole grain kisses
lacing
my blue, blue ruin.

and oh the rhythms
the casual rhythms of your tongue
sharpening, sharpening my body

and later the white whispers
that
unraveled
a brittle, brittle silence

i remember your mouth
pressed soft
pressed cool
pressed mute
against my neck
when the poetry was gone