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Sex> Curtain Call
Curtain
Call
"Curtain
Call arose out of a dream sequence in which
I was continually tied, bitten and pondering
the value of love."
By Lauri Jean
Crowe
Published December 2000
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is not the author) |
The heavy fabric opens, wide on this stage,
this ancient theatre of lamp lit glass.
Shadowy, the underbelly of some secret ancestry
I lay on my stomach hog-tied. Butterflies
dance on these ropes encasing pale boned
wrists tethered by biting mouths, iridescent
and flapping wings: the audience claps.
Powdery blue. They are not genitalia, they
are not tense with attention. If they were
their hair would be on end. They cannot
feel. They want to eat my heart. I nor you
know what that is. They want to feast on
emptiness. They are hungry. They use to
have eyes. They could teach me – you
– us of love?
They have retractable glass nails. I feel
them scraping my loins. There they leave
a powdery blue glaze long fingered. I do
not cringe at the touch. What can I learn?
You watch, silent, pressing buttocks to
blue velvet cushions. Can I give them innocence?
My lost virginity? It is where the heart
never lied. They have retractable glass
nails. Can I offer them my long, white tongue,
and its placatory licks? Can I release the
ropes that I may join you?
Let us gnaw them with our passion seeking
the wings on which to fly. Let us startle
them from apathy, the cold reverie with
which they watch the stage of their own
making. The ancient mysteries of womb and
birth and death relived a thousand times?
What can I offer you?
They have sharpened sightless eyes at the
corners of my lips. I ask what they desire,
they say – You created us. Tell us
how to begin this, end this, we want to
amuse you. They look on powdery blue. They
are frozen. They are cardboard cutouts.
They are the creations of a mind long mad.
They are actors dancing on the edge of the
stage waiting to fall, into the chasm of
space that is emptiness – my heart.
Who are these spectators, jailers? I writhe:
I want release! I want these ropes gone!
I want my breast, sweating iridescent in
your butterfly lips biting until I bleed,
the last drops of innocence onto a crushed
glass bed. I want and want! What can I offer
you? What group of actors and liars and
fools am I a descendent of, what can I offer
my jailers? What can I give of myself?
I want to bind my own wrists, legs, at the
edge of this wide stage. At the clap of
their hands roll from the curtains soft
onto my back and look upward into your bite.
Come, my winged one, lift your buttocks
from the velvet. It is intermission and
there are hearts for sale.
Writer:
Lauri Jean Crowe is a freelance writer known
for such diverse topics as dreams, sexuality,
gardening, health and parenting. She is a
freelance writer, artist and designer living
in Michigan, USA. Lauri Jean welcomes feedback
at vu-writer@earthlink.net and is seeking
serious individuals who wish to be interviewed
about all aspects of sexuality.
To learn more about this writer and her
diverse skills follow these links
The
Living Herbal
Managing
Editor, Customs, Etiquette, Folklore
Contributing
Editor, The Art & Science of Dreams
Short
Story Editor at Mocha Memoirs
Index
of writers, the-vu
About
Lauri Jean Crowe's own dreams
Mythwell Survey
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