Humidity bathes the city in its erotic mucilage, its erotic vacuum, its erotic vessel as sounds of a woman’s panties crinkling between her tightly crossed legs beckon the primal instincts out of the ectoplasm of men. Like seething vampires, they hustle to the symphony of her silk and lace, striving to grow closer to a violin clit and harpist labial petals richly dank in honeyed cream. Unbinding her thigh of the scarlet scarf, she ties it about her lover’s eyes, dangling a thin sheath to his nose invoking him to inhale her womanly fluids that have stained it.
On the upper deck of an enormous yacht, she bends forth cascading her ebony tresses over the banister tickling the now hungry waters with her tail, transforming into the braided ladder her lover would manipulate to enter her city. In the Piñata room, her fiery eyes let forth sexy emerald dragons that lunge to the ceiling and spit forth a volcanic emulsion that becomes the shawl of three shivering souls, fusing them into one supreme man with whom she’ll share the wine of her mystifying spirit in order to bless and expel the sensual demons dwelling within his masses.
Swinging, swaying encircling the ship’s mast, ladies robed in shimmering sapphire chiffon and cerulean veiled cheeks seduce spectators, “come release the vellum of my face and taste the tang of my lips,” sings the song of their hearts as the woman in Tyrian purple dances the lyrics of a gypsy on the Ferine Plank. One by one, she releases seven doves holding ivory parchments in their beaks to be the deliverers of an invitation to seven lovers presently named, sealed with the sweet acids of her lingua and a lone scarlet ribbon when touched by their labrum will alter the glossy silk meadow upon which their unity will shed blood.
In the dungeon, the flicker of flames rage to the ceiling, celebrating the resemblance of a contained zenith screaming to bear its fruit, exploding to the penetrating rhythm of her svelte hips, its spiral tunnel spews forth beautiful urchins with diamond cut hearts, one of which becomes the crystal future for the ashen-haired belle kneeling at the base of her Father’s kingdom.
Staring into her past, she beholds the phases of her heritage ripening in the facets of the illimitable jewel…her juvenile mischief, her adolescent innocence, maturation to womanhood, her countless friends and lovers, the bridges connecting her heart and soul that have united one pathway to the ravishing, legendary woman who has endured the ages with elegance. Sibilant ghosts croon her praises in haunted, illuminated, sable graveyards, “Blessed be the Symphony of a Woman!”
~daria S. dawson
© 2000