Seppuku
In the puddles of plum ink splashed all over the tawny tinged linen paper, seppuku
beckoned the dauntless spirit of the torero.
Taunting, teasing, tempting, seducing his soul with tiny tremors that
tickled his fancy on the eve of his birth.
“Please come sleep in my den this night,” he begged in a feminine,
sultry voice, while visions of an agonizing woman crept up and down the cryptic
wallpaper awarding his eyes the celebration of her womb.
Portraits of lusty, compulsive sunsets were displayed on the front lawns of couplets
dancing the waltz with gloved hands; wedding gowns and tuxedos outfitted their
naked bones cajoling curves to flaunt themselves. The newspaper, from 3.10.1913, lay gruesomely aristocratic and
pretty to the slashing of the butcher’s knife while the pendulum of the
grandfather clock swayed left to right in a hypnotic solicitation to its dark,
rhythmic, secluded harmony.
Flight 666 leaves the quay of Hades at precisely 12:01AM, the final skinny dip in the
volcanic lake must befall by 11:00PM or the serpent’s tongue will brand the
temples of the fragile ones with the cravenly tattoo. Fifty thousand breaths inhaled, forty thousand breaths exhaled as
the smoke from the lungs of the genius displays midnight rainbows in the carnal
skies… Oliver enjoys the sultry movements of the nomad Olivia worshipping her
flame, Miranda performs erotic fellatio kneeling before her Masterful Marlon,
Lauren chants the rhymes of her lovely poetic mind to her captive Laufer,
Sydney beseeches marriage with lips furrowed to Serina’s palms.
Milky remnants stain the grain of direly polished wooden floors, imprints of ruby
lipstick ribbon the platinum vanity mirror, and thorns of withered lilac roses
decorate the helical staircase leading to the metallic doors of the matrimonial
dungeon. The diaphanous veil is lifted,
the beautiful face of seppuku exposed in the midst of riddles and Broadway
vapors, tap dancing on 6 manholes on 6 different avenues, 6 minutes before the
midnight moon sheds its ecru cloth and robes itself in purple brilliance in
preparation for the final waltz.
Down the serpentine mezzanine, the lavish bacchanal unfolds like the awakening of the evening
primrose to the slick contraction of tempting dusk, luring its petals to slowly
expose her inner beauty for the sake of flamboyancy, impression and
demise. Deep in the harvest of love,
extracted from the marrow of romance – temptation, lust, endearment,
provocation, bewitchment, ecstasy…a scathing, fervent affair in the sweltering
depths of immaculate sin.
~daria S. dawson
© 2000
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