Seven naked women left dark spots in my night vision,
the leader hangs her clit over the taut neon lizard skin,
drums respect the judgments, body, music and woman,
rules apply to all and after you break one pass the sin.
Advising time is fun and you’re allowed to scar away,
be yourself a silent ringer and then prepare to sway,
respect the process to the end be on time and stay,
crossing rhythms die before starting your own way.
Taut belly skin can borne any ancient ear shaking,
breasts only suggest knowledge of appreciating,
nipples know structure of painful climax pulling,
drumming to what you are hearing and seeing.
Ass stripping with pleasure marks from a demon,
standing in front with soul-searching bush season,
try to stay without inflection or smile is the reason,
healing life with death & sink or swim without seamen.
Women need a different rare phantom deadpan respect,
naked mountains between the legs with drums as a subject,
dare yourself never back out that’s treating death as a reject.
beat your demons with psychology in which you dance and reflect.
The whip-wielding dominatrix knows the secret to life is that it’s good pain,
awakening sensations of sexless experience in a private car on the terror train,
possibilities are endless when the joie de vivre lingers in a quivering spastic brain,
to a paroxysmal you there’s no difference between melted ice cream and a cum stain.
An expert and master near the highly charged nerves ending in a merciful equilibrium,
dive into the pool of pain just once more scratch and claw before releasing them,
not immune to the fear of failure with power to rescue from the edge of asylum,
reflections in a mirror transmit terror that crosses a fragile line with a stem.
The slap slides off from the oil and ooze with the tears and sweat delirious,
feeling the creative methods of inducing euphoric pain is mysterious,
naked skin is absent with a pure locus of new pain that is serious,
the ideal sadist offers a revolting experience that is imperious.
Voices of the brain torture the raw red exposed flesh,
sensations from the body soles and palms mesh,
repetition yields to stinging when they thresh,
another dimension of pain beyond a creche.
Slime and moist skin wet the black hair,
deter leather whip from being there,
breathing well beyond the stare,
pain and pleasure as vapid air.
Transmogrified from a short story by Beth Bransby