Whispers on the Wind

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

Can you handle me

when I crawl across the floor to you with that pleading look in my eyes?

Can you handle me

when I beg for your cruelty, your mercy?

Can you handle me

bared on the rack before you, waiting for your next move?

Can you handle me

when I beg for just one more lashing from your new cane?

Can you handle me

when the tears well in my eyes after you have taken me further than my own limitations?

Can you handle me

when I need nothing more than to serve you, please you?

Can you handle me

when you place the collar about my neck, the marks upon my skin, marking me as your own?

Can you handle me

and my submission given only to you?

Can you handle me

when I bleed for you, cry for you, long for you?



Can you handle me?

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

Slashes
Red
Against
Canvas of
Ivory
Flesh

Leather
Worn
Smooth by
Sweat

Encircling
Wrists

Holding
Firm

Iron
Will
Holding
Firmer

It is
My Need
My Want
My Submission

Holding
Me
There

Crack
Of
Thunder

Each
Time
The Whip
Strikes
Skin

Then
A Flogger
A Crop
A Torch

Composing
Symphonies
Of
Grunts
Moans
Sighs

My Body
The Orchestra

You
The Conductor

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

Emotions streaking the page of my life so like watercolors in the rain.
Hues of happiness in vibrant red, yellow and orange blur into despair's shadow of black.

Even in my maturity, I long to wail and rally at a mother's breast, demanding revenge.
Yet here, no law, no reason, no logic apply.

The imprint of your words striking harshly against my frail exterior.
And if I'd the strength of the Titans, I would banish you into exile.

Yet beyond the silhouette,
Contained within the reflection of the shattered mirror;
I stare at your face, and I see
Myself.

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

I draw deeply on the clove cigarette between my fingers,
thinking of a time when you and I danced among the maples

But now you sit still as stone
Locked within the fortress of your own pain
Isolating me from the sanctuary I once found in you

You were to me a life-saver,
And all the things within myself I longed one day to set free

Could we again be like we were
Could we be like the camera caught us
Exposed in that worn photograph long since discarded?


As the leaves now fall from the trees
Mingling and burying the feathers of my freedom in you

I turn and walk away
Forsaking everything
Including the coins that rustle in my pocket
And choosing the path of the recluse

I wander now
Alone
A Buddha seeking the answers to my own suffering
In solitude

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

"Cyrano Reborn"

Using methods of spinning words and syllables into liquid silk
I spend countless hours writing unending declarations of love
Is but nothing to come of this?
If I were a man of revenge, I would confess the deepest secret of my soul
I would risk the world turning on it’s axis, and everything becoming awry
To tell you that these words are not hys, but in fact mine.
Ahh but to risk the recoil of such actions, such thoughts.
I do not dare to render myself wounded with the fall out of such.
So here I sit, body bent over the page creating images of scenic beauty in soliloquy.

And as I watch from darkened shadow
I watch this charlatan, this jester, play the part of King to a willing and blinded audience.

But if given the opportunity
Would I step from the shadows embrace?
Would I take your hand and lead you off to dance?
Would I be able to serenade you with the music of my words?
Could I dare steal you away, you the belle of the ball?

I answer my own question.
My own musing as I make my way out to stand under the bright scrutiny of the moonlight.
The sounds of muted whispers, the rasp of silken skirts float on the wind from inside to me.
And I damn myself for my cowardice.
If I had half the nerve I shall dash out my own heart lest it betray me again.
I should retreat forever from the cruelty of this world into permanent hermitage.
Yet, transfixed, I remain riveted to this spot, a masochist for the maker of my own demise.

If only I could air the desire
If only I could adore her, my lady in the open.
And not be confined to the sidelines.

I lift my head and gaze at the stars
Damning the gods for their tormenting games
Since when had it become sport to leave the hearts of the faithful broken?
Since when had it become commonplace to fall prey to the sting of loves nine lashes?

Oh but to embrace the sanctuary, the reverie of fantasy.
There could I hold her
There could I profess that in fact it is I who love her
That the words of devotion hy speaks are truly mine.

And as I draw my jacket tighter against the chill from within
I damn the fire of my Cajun blood, and the passion it births.
If only I had taken the path of the prophet rather than the poet.
I could then be the restless walker, and not have to linger here slave to my own passions.

And yet I wonder
Perhaps one day could the balance be shifted?
Could the fates decide in my favour?
Could my luck possibly change?
And if that day should come about would I know it in it’s coming?
Would I know the time, would I know the date?

And with the sound of a lonely bird’s cry.
The haunting lilt of the loon;
I am struck with the mark of genius
The lightning strike of epiphany
That I will never stop my yearning for her.

And with heart pounding like rain on tin
I turn and make my stand.

And with the bravado of beloved Cyrano
I step onto the battlefield.

As I take her into my arms
And my love for her profess.

I know that if all else
I may have lost the war.
But the battle has just begun

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

"Bondir"

Diving into the abyss
With eyes wide shut
I bring forth
Radiance
Light
Love
With the touch
Of compassion

[Scots_On_The_Rocks]

I want you,
With such intensity
Right here
Right now.

My fingers tangled in your hair,
the colour of the finest French cognac.

I see in my minds eye
Your eyes the darkest brown,
so like the ink in the inkwell
as they look to me with fire,
with passion.

My fingers insist on touching your skin.
So much so that my palms itch from the want.

I long to clasp you to me fiercely, taking you right here.
Bending you over the desk.
Having my way with you until you scream and beg me not to stop.
Until both our knees are weak, and our breathing laboured.

I long to be your vagabond,
Your rogue
Your dirty little secret.

As in turn you become my little whore.

The lines becoming fuzzy between
Reality and fantasy.

And as we wait to write our own history in grunts, growls, moans, and screams.

I claim forever what is rightfully mine.

Your body,
Your, heart,
Your soul.

In silence