Erotic Poetry
2010-05-23

RED AND BLACK

I

There lies a girl on a bed
Hung with draperies, black and red;
It might be night, but needn’t be;
The light comes from pale candles, three
Though velvet curtains line the wall
They admit no light at all,
And the steady, muted ticking of the clock
Is the only sound they do not block.
The shadows flicker in the flames
And as they do they whisper names.

Her lips are black and her hair is red
And spread on the pillow beneath her head;
Red on black the picture is
On the pillow behind her head,
Woven with snakes and an hour-glass
On the bed she rests as the moments pass
Dividing the seconds, going, gone
The ancient clock ticks steadily on.

Her covers are black and her sheets are red,
Tucked immaculately on her bed
On which she lays in silent thought
On things which she perhaps should not.
Her skin is pale in the flickering light;
Her hand clasps a book that’s black and white,
As the ancient clock divides the time

II

Now the clock has stopped and stifling silence reigns
Except for her muffled moans of pain
Where she is tied to her own bed
With cord of black and cord of red;
Her legs are spread, tied open wide
Pale candlewax dripping down inside
A hand holds one of the candles three
But more, there is no light to see;
As shadows swirl in living strands,
As she struggles under her bonds and bands
Her skin is red around her breasts
Where they’ve been burned and squeezed, pinched and pressed,
And slapped, as tears trail down her face
Along scars that time will not erase;
Her nipples cut with paper from the book,
From every page where she dared to look.
There’s a hot weight on top of her, crushing her breasts
But in the light and through tears she sees only darkness;
Her struggles finally start to subside
But she tries to scream as something cold is forced deep inside…

III

There lies a girl on a bed
Immaculately made, black and red.
Three candles burn low, and the only sound
Is a ticking clock, slowly winding down.
Her lips are black and her hair is red,
And she closes the open book in which she’d read.
It’s plain cover, black and white,
Is placed aside for another night,
And she ponders the meaning of dreams
As the shadows flicker, or so it seems;
And a white cord lies, unnoticed,
On the floor by the bed

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