Slave Indigochild registered 622-403-088 on Seek Discipline. Formerly Prinsexx.

1/30/2010 10:28:27 PM: 
The Kiss.....Her Bondage

Oh how I’ve waited at the gates of hell. Stuck. An
uncut diamond still unhewn and made of sand. Fragile, running through my own
hands…..tired even of being turned

Yet waiting.

My body aches in every
untouched crevice. Dry compounded earth buries me alive. My dry mouth unable to
taste or indeed to swallow. A silence leaves my throat when I call out for you.

I am falling under your
spell, your control. (God will kill me surely if he finds out I simply know but I need to keep my faith in someone).
You say your control is an act of homage to my woman’s body. That I shall sit
for you unbound and that I should not move. And so I sit for hours in excruciating
ache. Leaning embracing air. Holding no-one. Eyes looking into space and on waking kissing air.

More you say. Give me
more. And I feel your eyes caressing contours and the torture of my
solitude. I hear the chip chip chipping of your sculptor’s knife against the
marble. Flakes like snow flirt past mine eyes like blades of steel. And
still…….

I do not, not just submit to
you as i have to all men before. Let my ardour grow within.
Staying
still let it find its own way out, this that you know you so desire. Be
full, be filled, be
still I hear you say and let it pour from every fibre of your being.
Chip chip chipping. And
still the flakes of marble fall. More on the floor in what is broken
off me more more more and still more on the floor than every pore of my
skin....

I am warm yet still your
hands never touch me. She is stone a duplicate you make. She will never kiss
you the way that I have kissed so many men before. Yet still you try to find
her. Chiselling her out of cold.

You’ve made many versions of me
have you not? In your mind’s eye? Our eyes met and I came and finally sat upon
your lap and your arm went around me protecting me from the world and from the
gaze of others. We are as secret as a sister and a brother. We are born of the
same world, hewn from the same stone, carved from the same rock, fired in the
same heat, blazoned in the self same furnace. We were always as one. Only the
fragments of air between our bodies now and the merest whisper of space between
our lips.

Release me from your
ceaseless work of wondering. Let me move please. I will come to you whilst
you work from memory. Release me from this bondage where hence I sit for you
hour after endless hour whilst you watch and fathom your next move.

We can be together I hear
you say when my work is complete. And so time binds me still like string, miles
of it, wrapped 'round me cutting its straw like edges into my skin. I cannot
breath, I do not dare for the pressure of your chords around me hurt the more. I
cannot move even to touch myself to know that I have edges separate from
the knife you cut me with. Every jagged cut hewn again and again until
the marks themselves are smoothed and my skin grows tough against the scars of
rebuttal.

I do not know. I cannot
tell. I have no way to know since time it was in passing…….am I brittle now or is it flint you carve which breathes itself to life? Many come to watch and
practice that hold you have me in.

Your work on me is done
now surely? Our lips so close and yet so far. A forever-promised kiss that
lasts, lasts for eternity.

...........His Restraint

Marble is
a metamorphic rock my dear, resulting from the metamorphism of limestone. It
has a slight surface translucency that is comparable to that of human skin. It is this quality that
gives my work a visual depth beyond its mere surface. This evokes a certain
realism when used for figurative works.

A figure
can be placed upon slender lower legs and the balls of the feet only when the
stress in the sculpture is carried through its entire form. I know when to push
the stone to its limits and exactly when to stop least it crumble and fall.

My tools
are music in my ears. La mazza; scalpelli: la subbia point; ll’unghettio, the
little fingernail; la gradina, my multiple teeth; lo scalpello, my flat chisel;
il flessibile with its diamond studed blade; lo scapezzatore, for
splitting………ah lo, not il or la, but lo, lo, listen to that. Not a simple chip
chip chipping.

How my
tools of love look like pain. Striking until I find the edges of you.

I am not a
man of many words but I have read of you, my beauty. You try my patience but we
both know if he, my brother, would find out, he would no doubt
kill us both. So there is very little time.

So stop your chip chip chipping against my restraint.

Let me split,

Carve,

Chisel and caress

With touch as hard as diamonds.

Let my restrain become refrain

Words become poetry

Poetry become dance.

Come to me

Immediately.

Sit here

Let me push you to your limits of desire

Put your breath upon my face

And my heart’s heat nearer to you.

Let me shape you…………..

Take the weight of your soul’s burden

So:

Shall we shall we kiss?

_______________________________

1/27/2010 1:18:25 PM: 
Lines in the futureHow long….has this been going on baby how long have I been holding on in circumstances beyond your control? Missing the point talking in tangents dropping particularslooking for signs? Taking notesgiving lecturesto anyone willing to learn? Walking stone perimeters  painting medicine wheels? When it’s not the Wheel of Fortune  Or a Journey with the Fool or the binge and purge of hunger or samsara  of re-birth?I start at her demise  try to end it before it beganwant to get the spelling right of terpsichorean:a dance with the devil;playing with thieves;borrowed, blue and begging arm in the wrong man’s sleeve? Chords  inscribed in circleswell proportioned argumentscushions well positionedblankets folded neat.  Snatches of a half forgotten song No ticket just an old abandoned seat. My face defies affect choking tears not hard to cryand that card of a man from an island; coffee grouts; tea leaves; and the beer froth I scry. Sun-dialand balanceall at the turn of at screw.Struggling to breath under waterThe taming of a shrew?Not a snapshot on old Kodak or a frozen date in time but a blur of long exposures  still life, after-birth. Post mortem of a crime. My soul she liked to wander  would not be tied ‘til time was done walked round the edge and over hand-hold, foot hold, crampon.Still hanging on. So my friends with their fancy equations won’t admit how easy it seems to have arrived back at the beginningfuture perfectand the-what-will-havealready-been-haunted by the same old dreams.  Taking this slow dance with you to a half forgotten tuneconsidering a future after all so it seems……  
			_______________________________

1/26/2010 8:58:16 AM: 
 
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Lines
on scrying

I will have scryed you.

Bathed whilst the kettle boiled.

Brewed the tea when  
soaking in oiled water.

Throwing back my head to catch patchouli along my curls

clipping it high atop my head whilst pouring.

Dark swirls of leaves will have sunk to the bottom of
 
the cup

and I will sip the trace of sweetness as far down as I
dare

so as not  
to swallow leaves.

Turn the cup anti clock-wise three times in my right
hand  
and tip it up upon a matching saucer.

(The gold rimmed china, roughly thrown  
in boxes: gift from a friend who asked me for a future.

Leaving time, I will make query in front of a sunlit
 
mirror and worry about my age, and lines and wrinkles.

Amazed I find  
a face with wide-eyed hope. Do you like black-lined eyes and dark stained lips,
 
my bangled wrists and ankles, an olive skin……..holding the illusion  
of immortality in the mask I prepare for you, letting down my hair a few  
seconds before we meet so that you find it tumbled.

Breathe deep, deeper yet for synchronicity.

We will  
deny each other touch at first yet this chosen skirt will swirl

and my shoulder  
laid bare will beg for mercy, mercy, mercy.

Fragments of a slave’s song makes 
me rock-dance a while, wanting to run bare-foot to you even through the streets).

I turn the cup.

The whirl of who you were and are and  
what we might become entranced in there.

In the old way, when all there was, were  
women and their tea

Telling fortunes.

Churned from urns and told.

In unknown  
tongues secondary to the pictures.

My grandma taught me that there might be a number in
the sky….

a hillside when once you travelled…..

the pouring cold and parting geese……….

your need for warm and rhythm.

The click and shunter of a wide wheeled car or train down
a track  
to travelling-forever-somewhere…………

But I will search for me, a trickle emblazoned here or
there:

clinging

where the sweetness refused to leave.

Having carried the cross and faith of so  
many broken times how did I know how to mend my heart enough to keep it
beating?

Do I see you here unmoving even in incumbent heat?

Throwing the cup and saucer into the sink of this
 
reality

grabbing a shawl, a bag

walking a meditation to the station

still seeing pictures in my head, alighting.

I cry. Waiting.

Hoping you will recognise my Betty Davis eyes.

You  
ordering fresh for two please both knowing that if you touch me or were to put your
 
finger on it

there

wouldn’t be a trace, or a trickle but a river pouring.

_______________________________

1/26/2010 8:32:31 AM: Lines on boredomAs I write
this I am bored.

Try shifting feet and changing tenses.

Bored with the intolerable afternoon heat pressing heavily

against my apartment walls.

Bored with the choice between the insufferable

dark of inside and the overwhelming brightness of the sun.

Bored with money
and the perfection that it buys

Armani, Laura Biagiotti,

Gucci, Krizia, MaxMara,

Missoni, Prada, Trussardi,

Valentino and Versace, to
name but a few.

Bored with paradise which closes for two

hours of enforced habitual eating.

Bored with dodging pigeons and the endless photographers who

insist that I am beautiful even though they have seen me when
I am not.

What could
we do tonight?

I’d offers you many entertainment opportunities

a comprehensive variety of bars,

drink wine

to while away your time………..

Ok. I am
bored with boredom in my upper overlooking storey and all that copywriting
can buy.

Shuttering out the afternoon heat.

Sipping finest red.

Yearning. yearning for the mountains.

Yet fascinated
by girls who come out at night eschewing the eyes of nuns.

White
stilettos; black-stockings; last season’s skirt; car journeys measured by the
half-life of a cigarette.

So I tear
at my stockings somewhat and put on a pair of heels.

Black holed hold-ups
….that should pull him and smoke: the first in years.

Even if I cough
I plan to ask for a light.

Every girl
should have a corner of a street.

God is smiling down allowing a Princess to stand there in a fur, left over from a journey back from tundra.

Out of
place in a sweltering day but night can
turn and it will do to cover nakedness.

Trip trapping steel tips down the two flights of stairs and I am ready for you on the corner, underneath the moonlight.

Praying you are lamp-lighting.

That you will pay or atleast take pity and offer me a light.

Think of me as small change and in need
and I will take you to the angels.

Leaning against the wall saving the singular stub from falling through the lining of
a pocket. Bored.

Try exchanging feet and shifting tenses.

Moda Donna on the outside; torn to shreds within.

Sodium oxide stripping colour of the fox to grey.

The first
approaches and she leans into its crawl.

He elbows the edge

of a wound down

windows muttering.

In the splintered seconds of her mind
he is gone.

And so another and another one.

She forgets the thousand men
who really want to fuck her.

And will suck the one who doesn’t.

The late
night air pressing down upon her in a spat across the very space in wherein she stood.

Thunder closing vacuums.

A raven’s screech heralding altered realities

And then it rained.

Her face
waited to be cleansed.

A filter clinging to her mouth.

Bored.

Seared red lips like a sunset at the fag end of a
day.