Camille

(Two poems interwoven, one of them being an entry for Romantic_Head's "Erotic Thriller" competition and another for ChacoTaco's "Color of Emotions" competition, though somewhat edited. I thought they complimented each other in a strange yet satisfying way.)

In this scene she's crumpling
to the black and white checkered
floor. Her French maid's uniform
soiled and torn.

Before him, she lit the prettiest
candles, all pink lace and charms.
The bowl of purple ornaments,
their glittering shiver.

How it filled her, the sight
of those white marble counter tops.
Only the barest, most delicate
finger of dust.

There were the velvet curtains, red
as the scarlet woman’s dress. Red
as her sex. The giant feather boa
while a tiny finch fluttered in
the cage of her ribs.

She would tongue the chipped tooth
at the back of her mouth, the morning
a perpetual taste of blood. A black
velvet ribbon round her slender,
white throat.

The gilt clock on the mantel. The cut
crystal goblet with its faint lip of
arsenic.

She memorized the intricate pattern
of vines in his carpet. His eyes neither
blue nor brown but some murkiness
in between.

Her hands, pale instruments of ache.
The bones worn fine and thin.

Always rain outside. Thunderstorms
and dogs licking at the windows
while corpses waltzed in the ballroom.
A piano playing itself
in the conservatory and a leg of lamb
rotting in the kitchen.

In shadowy rooms she could hear
her desire. Soft. Panting.
How it echoed in corners,
the inherent sadness of doorways.

The fog at her lips. Under blankets,
the dolls moaned.

There was the sweet perfume
of paranoia. They all wanted her
or they wanted her dead.

She was a little too much in love
with objects. With lavender journals
and chandeliers. The Haviland china
and the Exacto knives.

The man in the smoking jacket.
The library with its books of empty
pages. Always the cook vanished
before the meal and everyone
starving to death.

The well-water in her hair.
Glass buttons on her shirt.

The butler coming up behind her,
his gloved hands, their swarthy heat.
The glinting of the knife
before the shocking bloom of red.

Always catching. Catching.