Lady Lynda and the hypnotist.
Lady Lynda began to think of how she was becoming the one thing she dreaded. A non dutiful wife thinking only of her needs. A good wife should think only of her husband’s crude desires. She needed discipline. She should grit her teeth and bear it” I certainly hope the hypnotist can cure me of my improper lewd thoughts. It is in a neighborhood I don’t come by that often. It won’t be easy going there by myself but go there I must.
The male hypnotist entered from the rear to the dimly lit rustic stage. The brick building was in the part of town Lady Lynda seldom traveled to. It appears to be the type of neighborhood the girls from Charm School for wayward girls and Mr Pequot’s Reform School for Dastardly Bastards. Adolescents and their parent or parent who were given far from the best opportunities. Folks who were of a much darker skin and/or Spanish accents. He wore a soft woool jet black turtle neck with an ornate golden leather vest His slightly bell bottomed blue jeans give him a somewhat sixties look. He eyes the people there and quickly smiles. The young man quickly perused the crowd. “I know I look like I just graduated high school but looks can be deceiving. I’ve been around the block. I paid my dues and I understand the clues. So don’t say I didn’t warn you. You can leave any time you want but if you want to be mesmerized then stay in your seats. Whose first?”
Lady Lynda could see somehow see behind the bravado a hard working entertainer. She could see the beads of sweat on his face dripping down as the hot stage light shone on him. She couldn’t help noticing how despite his bravura how anxious he seemed. Yet she could notice his keen determination to put on a good show. He was a complete professional.
“Now ladies and gentlemen I am a trained professional hypnotist. But I am not here to lecture you on hypnotherapy. I am here to show you the ways this therapy and it is truly a therapy that can be one of fun and entertainment. Any volunteers to help me prove my point?
The man on stage saw a young woman raised her hand. He noticed her eagerness. He beckoned her to come up on stage. He smiled a friendly smile and asked if she ever saw him before. She replied she did not. He began slowly to relax, reassure her. Next he told her nobody can hypnotize anybody into doing something they would not do if not under hypnotism. Then he jokes including breaking physical law. The woman laughed to think she’d think she was a Siamese cat. She purred and haughtily peered at the audience. She eagerly meowed as the hypnotist enticed her with catnip. The crowd laughed uproariously. The participant looks confused and this makes the people think its even funnier.
Lady Lynda volunteered. The man on stage said to Lady Lynda “My you look proper with your carnation pink brocade jacket and skirt. Well I’m going to let you let your hair down. I’m gong to make you talk like “Snoop Doggie Dogg.” Oh I see by your puzzled expression you don’t know who he is. He’s a badass rap singer with his own style of talking.
Lady Lynda looked at him askance but she still figured he knew what he was doing. She didn’t hesitate. She walked briskly onto the stage. The hypnotist jauntily greeted her. Then he told her to look directly at him and at nobody else. Then he told her to say something. The woman replied in stentorian tones “Youth should respect their elders”. “Whenever someone says fizzle you’ll sound exactly like Snoop Doggie Dog. Whenever anybody said Hey she’d stop sounding like the rapper and be her old self. The hypnotist then asked her to say something in Snoopdog. Lady Lynda was confused. She never heard this young man talk. The man who ordered her told her Snoop would probably say “Youizzle shouizzle respectizzle yourizzle elderizzles.” Then he said now you say what I just said. Lady Lynda repeats in stentorian tones “Youizzle shouizzle respectizzle yourizzle elderizzles.” She has no idea how she sounded. To Lady Lynda she sounded like she normally does. “Those young people finally respects their seniors. I must be an inspiration to them.
“Thank you my dear sweet young ones. Thank you for taking me into your hearts. I feel at home here with you.” The words she said came out sounding like this. Thizzle you my dizzle swizzle onizzle Thizzle you for tizzle mizzle into your hizzle I fizzle at homizzle wizzle you. The mostly youthful people there hooted and hollered and cheered the prim and proper lady. Lady Lynda cheerfully smiled. The hypnotist snapped his fingers and she was her old self. She thanked him and then after the show went on her way home.
On her way home she encountered she heard a young mother say how she was so disappointed her babysitter fizzled out on her. Lady Lynda turned to her and said in patrician tones. “I feel sorry for you.” It came out sounding like this. Izzle feelizzle sorrizzle forizzle youizzle. The young woman gasped. It seemed so weird to her to see this conservatively dressed woman talk like Snoopdog. She thought especially since there was absolutely no reason for the woman to sound like him.
“Why you talkin like SnoopDog. “You be thinkin’ its cool to talk like that rapper.”
Lady Lynda was truly confused. For in her mind she talked like she always did.
“My dear woman what are you saying. I speak proper grammar. Something my dear young woman you don’t seem to know the meaning of. I am a professional etiquette coach and I am national lecturer on the same. Lastly my lady friend Auntie Carol and I expounded the importance of good manners in our “Charm School for Wayward Girls and Mr Pequot’s Reform School for Dastardly Bastards.”
Instead it sounded like “Izzle speakizzle properizzle grammarizzle. Somethingizzle myizzle dearizzle youngizzle womanizzle youizzle don’tizzle knowizzle the meanizzle ofizzle. Plus the rest of sounded as if Snoop said it.
Just then a crowd of the neighborhood teens started gathering toward the primly dressed woman and the sharply contrasting scantily clad young mother. They began to watch and listen intensely to every word of the much older woman. Lady Lynda saw how they looked to be quite interested in her every word. It was as if they never encountered such a woman of such fine etiquette and grammar in their lives. Seymour Toze’s wife was well pleased. She beamed with pride as she spoke her words of wisdom. Completely unknown to her she sounded like a middle aged suburban woman sounding like a certain rapper. The woman eagerly told the youth of the importance of good manners, respecting their elders and getting a good education. The woman was so proud of herself the scalywags eagerly hung onto every word she said.
Just then a young man yelled “Hey whats going on here with this crazy white woman?” Suddenly Lady Lynda heard in her mind exactly as she talked. No more did she sound like Snoopdog but her old self. The crowd wondered what was going on? So did Lady Lynda. Then she remembered the hypnotist. “Oh my my dear now I know you’re staring at me. I was hypnotized. I never heard of this Snoopdogstyle or whatever his name is. How did I sound?”
A young woman replied you sounded cool but I think its best to sound like yourself. That talk is fine for Snoop but you’re you and you should be you.”
“I certainly agree” replied Lady Lynda. The people gathered around her clapped and cheered. The woman happily smiled and thought to herself. The best way to be is to be true to herself. She wouldn’t worry about pleasing herself instead of Seymour. Her relationship with her spouse would be based on being true to herself.
THE BLACK ORCHID’ S ORGASM
Ah, Darlings, this is the Black Orchid and I am celebrating my favorite time of year, the winter. Any fool can love the spring with its red and purple flowers and a blue sky to break your heart with beauty. Sparse, white open spaces intrigue me and the hot burn of Salignac on my cold pink lips. I am burning inside and freezing on the outside. I wear a ling white polar bear coat and am completely nude underneath save for white lace stockings and a pink leather garter belt.
I cup my hands that I may eat the snow. Then lie down nude in the snow and make snow angels. Foolishness is good for the heart. I weave holy berries into my long, black waist length hair and it takes hours. I nibble on berries as I walk through the forest. I notice a wolf trailing me (yellow eyes through the bushes,) The animals sense that I am a lioness woman. My mother, a shaman lay with a male lion to beget me. I am eons old but the the changing seasons never fail to thrill me I shall walk in the darkness of this white and indigo night, alone and solitary. The sky is indigo next to the sharp silver stars. I pray that one will fall and I can catch it. Stranger things have happened.
I hear the crunch of my bare feet in the snow and feel its cold sting as it pierces my feet. The wind blasts me with snow and my eyelashes fill up with ice. I open my cloak to feel the silvery moonlight shed its cold rays on my bare skin. And a hot fire burns in my loins and I surrender to it. Life is lush. And I feel the hardness of my alabaster tits and my center is on fire. fire like hot lava. Lush, lush life. Breathe forth on me, Sister Moon.
REVISION OF COPY FOR CATFISH
“Okay I be tellin’ ya my story. One time when I was young,
I was rich as Croesus. I had me six fine, fat, juicy Bitches and they
Wasn’t no ho’s neither. None of my womens had to work. Just lay
Back, fuck, and look pretty.”
“Tell me about the Bitches, Mr. Joe,” askedTyrone.
“Oh, they was the finest pussy this side ofMississippi.
Big, black, and juicy as goddamn Georgiapeaches. They was horny as cats in heat,
too. They loved the hell, out of they ol’Daddy Joe.
“Mr. Joe,” said Tyrone, “How you gone tell me
you wasn’t no pimp, Where you git’ the money!”
Well, I got somethin’ kind of weird to tellya’. But I
wants to tell ya’ I ain’t no goddamned headcase.
Tyrone, I had me this old, brown mule, thename of Sugar.
And when I would hold up her tail and itwas time to go,
she shat diamonds. Big, beautiful diamonds,and nothin’ else.
Then the old Bitch died on me, and I didn’thave nothin’ no mo’.
Lost the mansion and the Bitches, too. Aint no woman gonna fuck with no po’ ass man.You, believe me, son?”
Tyrone paused and looked directly at oldJoe.
“Sho’, I believes ya, Mr. Joe. It was some damned Bad Ass
Luck. Mr. Joe, why you aint come home wit’ me for dinner?
ham, grits, greens and biscuits. You like peach cobbler? Mr. Joe,”
LlFE AINT NO MAGICAL THING
Life aint no magical thing, son.
‘Ya think it glisten,
‘ya think it flash like teeth at midnight,
or sparkle like a damned diamond on a fat bitch’s neck?
It aint nothin’ but time and a half,
And a 401K.
Dollars is mo’ powerful than blood, son.
‘Ya got yo’ body, Ty,
God done give it to you.
But you aint got no money, son.
God aint gone give you that.
‘Ya got to fuck ‘wid the devil to ‘git that.
Every day of yo’ natural life.
‘Ya got to serve someone.
‘Git me, motherfucker?
The carriage is coming for me. I lie pale and dead, my hands folded over my chest in a gesture of supplication. A pious lady like I never was in life. I am La Gitana. It’s what they call me, a beggar and consort of kings. You may think that the dead know nothing. But I tell you we rage. We rage we can no longer feel the dew on the underside of a leaf, nor the touch of a lover’s hand on our ass, nor the sweetness of full red wine on our lips. We feel rage that we cannot feel the slow thud of our hearts, the red blood being forced through our veins, and we rage for all the love we have lost.
Ay, the beautiful caress of the wind through chartreuse, green leaves, the tilting of white clouds careening across a turquoise sky. We rage for the days gone by. Life is but a droplet of rain sliding down a window pane. I am much honored but I have also been reviled much in my life. One cannot be vivid without breaking some hearts. Que lastima, (What a pity) I say and winner take all. I have been what people thought I was, and I have also been just myself. It is impossible to sort.
My carriage is six black stallions and a pale driver. I asked for a rubio to ferry me across to the other side. Inside my carriage is gold and red velvet. Red is my color: blood is my legacy. They will line the streets and call my name holding long white candles. My story begins as I am sixteen. The year is 1679, and King Carlos having ascended the throne at age fourteen, has married Marie Louise, the niece of Louis XIV of France, at age eighteen. It is not enough for France to defeat Spain in war: She must also rule us on the domestic front as well. King Carlos, or El Hechisado, (The Bewitched), as he is called, is simple and in ill health. What a sin to have to lie with a fool. Don Juan of Austria, Carlos’s illegitimate brother, rules through violence and intimidation. The queen mother, Mariana, is weakened and her valido, Valenzuela, deposed.
King Carlos is not our king, and Spain is not our country. We are ruled by our own king, a Rom Baru, and to hell with Spain. Soy una gitana. (I am a gypsy).
Escuchame, querida. Tengo mucho que contar.
Listen to me, dear. I have much to tell.
I am Tekla. Soy una gitana. The lower part of my body is mahrime, or unclean, two parts pressed together like a dusky rose. My upper body is pure like a virgin’s shoulders. So it is with all the woman of the Romani clan. We are pure and impure, and can pollute by our actions. We must never expose our lower half to anyone but our husbands and even then we must take care not to pollute them. We must stay away from our men and male stallions when we have the time of blood and when we are in child birth. There is a special red tent for these times. One who is mahrime by action or by nature cannot walk amongst us. The worst punishment for a gypsy is to be cast out, or judged mahrime, for he can never live the gypsy life or be with other gypsies. It is a fate worse than death for it is death to the spirit. Family is the most important thing for a gypsy, not possessions, as it is for the gadje.
When I was a girl I used to wander bare breasted through the camps free as a flower, my high little girl’s breasts catching the light like burnt calla lilies in the morning sun. The little, ragged boys would run by and try to touch them but I always avoided their greedy, curious fingers. As I have said my gypsy name is Tekla. My gadje name is Carmen, and my secret name you will never know. My sister, Rupa, at fourteen is much more beautiful than I. Yet, I do not shed a tear: my heart is a stone. I am a mere thistle at her feet.
THERE IS NO DARKNESS THAT DOES NOT LOVE A LADY
There is no darkness that does not love a lady.
For a lady loves the night things.
Yellow roses glowing in the moonlight,
Fireflies swarming like tiny punctuation marks,
In the vast, moist darkness of the night.
The smell of roses and fertile earth,
So sweet and solitary permeates the air.
Green lizards crawling through pointed blades of vividian grass,
Pretending to be evil.
So tender are the blond curls,
At the base of her alabaster neck,
As the playful wind remakes her hair style.
Some people want to be known,
Like cheap carnival rides or cotton candy.
Gaudy, noisy, easily understood.
Common as dirt.
Not so for a lady
She will walk alone and inviolate.
And she will hold her secrets inside a turquoise box,
Until she is dead.
When the box is open they will fly up to heaven like soft tiny doves,
In a flurry of wings.
For a lady needs the darkness, the quiet,
And the silvery arc of the moon through whispering trees.
Roll on you majestic darkness and envelope, envelope, envelope.
There is a fierceness to snow.
It caresses as it kills.
Its relentless whiteness vanquishes all other colors except gray.
It paralyses with its beauty.
And deadens with its monstrous cold.
No, snow is not our friend like its paler cousins, rain and fog.
What is beautiful can kill.
What is soft can break you easier than a knife or a sword.
T-Rex, fearsome lord and prince of blood,
Once ruled the forest primeval.
And the snow came and brushed his lizard eyelid
With a soft, tender flake.
And he said, “Welcome friend, soft and beautiful one.
And he was wrong.
What is soft breaks things more completely,
Forever and ever.
Yes, there is a fierceness to snow,
And a shimmering of silvery white.
My heart is a broken thing,
Like half of a Valentine candy.
Be mine, broken one.
Trace its jagged edges,
And bleed like Jesus on the cross.
You twisted me, you tore me, you beat me,
Like a Rotten Doll.
Now I am a Rotten Doll.
Twisted, wry, murderous at heart, bitter as cloves,
At the core of my being.
My stockings stained with your cruel, careless love,
And my smile as fake as a plastic rose.
Your face lingers over me like a polluted sky.
You twisted me, you tore me, and you beat me like a mangy dog.
Now marry me, you Prince of Darkness.
And Reap just what you have sown.
Poems of Thunder
Noir & Whimsy
I think of you nude lying under the leaves with rose petals on your eyes,
An arm stretched out like Michelangelo’s angel on the Sistine Chapel.
I think of the click of your shoes like cruel castanets
In the red rooms of my heart.
I think of you nude,
Like a Romanesque angel.
Your skin like the dying rays of the sun.
I think of your hard, purple jewel
in the white, innocent smoothness of my hand
Mostly I think of your dark eyes like pitted olives,
Glowing like liquid obsidian in the dark moistness of the night.
I know you hate me and love me, and want the same from me.
You like arsenic and sugar,
and, I, poor simple beast only like the sugar.
You are a savage who rends and tears the ones you love.
Can I ever show you how simple is love.
How true. How deep. How honest.
You, vicious beast, who cannot learn.