Courting

A cold morning of listless sunlight
the bleak leafless trees scraping against the deathly white skies,
I sat at the table surrounded the muffling weight of red velvet curtains
that smelled of age old incense, and cat hair.
I looked at the creases on her face as they continued onto the table cloth
a march of ants in the corner of an exposed-wood room,
high-ceilings supported by whispers and cold thoughts.
She smiled, and I croaked: a loud raspy sound that escaped without my willing it.
Her smile deepened. She sat across from me
drew my glance into the purpled haze of the crystal ball,
no futures within nor ghosts of the present,
save the dryness of the moment, the feeling of being parched
a boat on the high seas with no land to sate its thirst.
I felt her hand clammy close about my brain
cold and yet smooth
like liquid metal filling my mental crevices.
I was walking towards her in spirit,
letting the room take me over
the ancient power of red gloom
and an aesthetic of dead branches.
My autumn was sliding hopelessly into an inviting winter,
I was being seduced.
I danced the unholy dance of powerlessness
a puppet in the hands of sadness and despair,
as I sat in the high-backed chair that seemed to embrace me in its vice
and looked at my charming captor,
an aged puppet-master, a grey-haired, horned demon in old chiffon
a Mrs. Havisham of willful malice
the day outside held in half-hearted stasis
unyielding to the redemption of sunlight
or the solace of darkness.
The flapping of buzzards from the ceiling spaces, the shadowy recesses.

And that's when I pulled the rose from my breast pocket
this was a game for two,
I flung it across at my partner
the red of the flower clashing with the sickly sweet scarlet of her lips
She was taken aback, I'm sure, eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly
a momentary lapse in her demeanor.
I fixed her stare, reached slowly for her clawed hands,
leaned forward in my chair, ready for sweet release.
The ecstasy of knowing my future
of the certainty of that infinitely dark curtain
made me a little mad, a little tipsy with power.
I sang two lines of an Old Anglo-Saxon ditty,
a lovely rhyming serenade
I tapped a rhythm on the confused floorboards
a beating of sensual drums
I pulled out an arsenal of Urdu erotic poetry
a strange melange of throaty Mongolian harmonies
I was pulling out all stops
pulling into the glow of the lamp overhead;
my hostess was now in distress
perfectly unhappy with recent developments
checking the centuries old water clock
shifting eyes uneasily,
curling her distasteful lips in a sneer for every declaration of amorous intent,
disturbed by the shaking of the table and the rage and passion in my voice.
She made excuses about her next appointment
I dragged my chair three feet forward until I could smell her fear
and she could get the barest glimpse of resolve in my eyes
I had to have her you see,
I had to have her see that I had to have her,
The orgasm of a single moment,
when she picked up a knitting needle in self-defense,
and I held my heart in a lovelorn tremble.
And smiling, I walked out.

And that was how Daddy cheated the Reaper, children.
No, she wasn't your Mommy!