He wore a crisp white suit,
exquisitely tailored; His hair,
platinum-blonde, styled elegantly,
fluttered lightly in the exhaust
of an unseen fan, casting
the shimmer of overhead lights
onto the mahogany table where we sat.

He was a beautiful man, but fearsome --
the lines and angles of His face were harsh,
nearly ugly, but regal and proud.
Contemplative and intense, legs crossed,
He smoked a black Djarum clove,
blowing plumes of curling perfume.

And He was unhappy with me.

With a voice like gravel and nails,
He asked about my whereabouts of late.
I had forsaken Him for love, and suddenly
felt the weight of my deserter's guilt.

He nodded in understanding,
His eyes squinting in deep thought,
then coming to rest on my torso;
Looking down, I saw it wrapped
in lavish dress, a suit as fine as His,
but black as the maw of death,
and remarked, "This is not my suit."

"It's Mine," He confirmed. "Keep it;
I think you're going to need it."
I understood that He spoke rightly.
Our eyes met. Finally, He smiled,
and clapping His hands, exclaimed,
"Let there be Light," and I awoke.

I had thinking to do.

Months passed in tense emotion;
Then dysfunction spilled over,
and on an unexpected night,
I prepared to dream alone, disrobing
for the quiet undertow of sleep.
Suddenly I heard His voice ring out.

He bade me lie in wait, so still
and so silent, feigning sleep.
Soon came footsteps in the courtyard,
keys jingling outside the door,
the door opening to allow entry,
a cigarette cherry in the dark,
restless pacing back and forth.

I knew something was wrong;
I awoke to betrayal,
and responding in kind,
Anger became Righteousness,
and revenge became Truth.
But it was not sufficient.

I had Work to do.

Opportunities materialized.
I prepared for action, clothing myself
in shadows, preparing the altar stone,
collecting candles, prayers, photographs,
the proper words for invocation,
plotting the course of the Moon.

The time came; the bell was struck;
the candles lit (twelve black, one white);
the perfumes hung thick in the air.
The words read themselves in monotone,
unperturbed by my hyperventilation.

Wind picked up, threatening the flames.
Danger welled up in the pit of my belly.
Innocence dissolved in passion,
extending into eternal shade.
I had become what I had invoked.

I poured it into the chalice and slept.
Upon awakening, I was myself again.

The fruit of my act was terrifying.

We sat in His parlor, drinking tea,
lazy rays of golden sunshine
illuminating a cozy, peaceful room.
With but a hint of fear, I noticed
that as He sipped in silence, He wore
a suit as black as the soul of a ghoul.
This time, it was I who wore white.

I knew that He was pleased.

Rolling over with desire
Lay neath the fuchsia petals

Morning sun sets ablaze
Your cinnamon hair let down

He wonders how ? that ,
That perfect porcelain face caged  him ?
When he has painted it

The fragrance he can't sense
Becomes his captor .

He stroked those almond eyes
With the dark of the night

She lay in his picture , his muse
Like aphrodite herself came alive on his canvas

Wishing he could just lay there
He curses saying ....
He's just an artist and he'll find another muse !

the wind picks up the
leaves and they dance in little
spirals and when it slows they
fall like the end of a
puppet show