Shades of Subtlety

a pic-and-prose poem

"Be it by gins, by snares, by subtlety"

William Shakespeare, King Henry VI, Part II (III.1)

Sometimes subtlety works. Merely dawn the right outfit And the right face-- That of an angel wearing a sin.
At times it takes but to show him the prize, To let the caress of dusk lead his eyes, And leave him no doubt in what you seek, With your defiant lips and vicious gaze.

	Or you might have to lure him in With a savory hors d'oeuvre, And hope that you can steer his appetite Toward your hunger.
	Or capture him at his least guarded, Impaling him with irises, And sweetly hinting For your prisoner to play the warden.

When he won't take the bait, Be a brat, silly and childish, Until he reaches the end of his rope And reaches to rope your end.
Or, if you prefer, be a smart-alec brat, Correct his logic and recall of history, And be sure to laugh at his errors Until he takes you to school.

	But sometimes he's dense. Then dispense with subtlety, Bring him his tools, And just ask for a fix.
	And when all else fails, Wear your most obscene, Close your shades, And cook your own meal.

---

Credits:

• Photo of lady by shades courtesy of All Flowers in Time, original source unknown.
• Photo of lady kneeling against wall courtesy of Sex in the Soup, via Visual Clips, author unknown.
• Photo of couple in bedroom by Andrew Davidovsky, via Workshop Erotica.
• Photo of blue-eyed fellatrix courtesy of Palace of the Lustful Kitty, original source unknown.
• Photo of silly-faced brat courtesy of Ridicuously Beautiful, original author unknown.
• Photo "Well-Read Girl #2" courtesy of Zip.QIP.RU, via Human Error, author unknown.
• Photo of lady offering brush courtesy of Consensual Spanking, original source unknown.
• Photo of lady self-spatuling herself courtesy of Fetish for..., via If You Can't Stand the Heat, original source unknown.

Ecce Spanko -- Canto II

An oily, scented throng blankets the sand.
Wild breaking waves submerging trifling chat.
My eyes on all but pages in my hands,
Surveying beauty clad in polyester.

No ray of sun strikes lovely skin as one
That bakes her back and legs like lobster tail.
Were I to peel her green bikini down,
I would unveil a stripe lost from Old Glory.

If less restrained, I'd dive right at that band
And soon complete this work of solar art.
I would create a glow that'd please Van Gogh
With strokes of two quintuply bristled brushes.

Alas, the public eye enchains my arms.
But in my mind, I'm master of the beach.
On my estate, we bathe in sand and sea
Alone, unseen, unchecked by social precepts.

I cross my sand domain and reach my neif.
The woman's startled by my touch.  She turns
Her head, returns my dev'lish smile.  For sure,
She knows the rights allowed her lord and lover.

I stroke and squeeze, pleased at the catch in hand.
My fingers curl to furl the green away.
Then hands return to glide across the flesh.
She coos and hums at such manipulation.

The gentle touch of chilly air, of hand,
Of knowing my intents bristles her skin.
I softly place a kiss upon each cheek.
And there upon the shore begin the splashing.

I slap and slap again her waxy cheeks.
Our hearts accelerate, our blood does rise.
She gazes back at me, her eyes trepid,
A feeble mask that fails to hide desire.

The splendent sun, in flooding flesh in light,
Upon her suppl'ly rippling skin gives sheen,
Betrays the glist'ning of her lips beneath,
And helps to draw the blush to coat the canvas.

Staccato pulses pierce the rush of waves.
My easel sings as I apply my art
And there, along the cheering water, smile,
Sensing my masterpiece approach completion.

Credits:

• Photo of nude lady siting on rocky beach courtesy of Wild Ride, via Favored by a Princess, original author unknown. (Eros Unbound post).
• Photo "Bronzette" courtesy of These Are Butts, original author unkown. (Eros Unbound post).
• Photo "Ah, summer..." by Solomon, via Papiers Gras (Eros Unbound post).

Limericks for Lurkers

For love of lurkers...

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Lady in Belfast There now lives a lady in Belfast. She thinks that this blog's gone to hell fast.   I try to be comical,   With themes anatomical. Perhaps I need more pics of swell ass.

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A Lady Near Carson City A lady lives near Carson City. My take on the Bard she found witty.   Well, tell me that, honey.   And that it was funny, Or e'en that my jokes are just shitty!

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A Guy in North Somerset There lives a guy in North Somerset. No blog by a bloke will he comment at.   Dude, it's okay.   I won't think that you're gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that).

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A Lurker in Manassas A lurker who lives in Manassas Likes one in my series Ekphrassis.   I'm happy, I reckon,   I hope it's the second. Do tell! Don't just sit passing gases!

---

A Gal in St. Paul There is a nice gal in St. Paul. She likes my poem 'bout the wall.   Say so, my dear,   I'm happy to hear. Did any read "Last Dance" at all?

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A Reader near Boise A reader that hails from near Boise, She thinks that my page looks quite noisy.   Critique it! Write shrewdly!   I won't respond rudely. It's not as though I'm from New Joisey! (My apologies to the people of the great state of New Jersey for any offense that I may have caused.)

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A Man from Nantucket There once was a man from Nantucket. He started a note then did chuck it.   You're not painting Monets.   Now grow some cojones! I care enough that---oh, fuck it.

---

These limericks were composed for Love Our Lurkers, a wonderful tradition started by Bonnie at My Bottom Smarts.  Love Our Lurkers is a chance for us bloggers to show our appreciation to those who read our site, but for whatever reason choose not to comment.  The other purpose, of course, is to encourage these lurkers to de-lurk: that is, to take the plunge and leave a comment.  So let me say that I am grateful for all the readers of my blog, be they participants or lurkers.  I hope that you enjoy what you find here.  If you lurk at Ecce Spanko, or are just stopping by now, please consider leaving a comment on this post and on any others you wish.  I consider most of my posts timeless, so there's no need to be hesitant about leaving comments on stuff I wrote a while ago.  Be sure also to visit the many other sites participating in LOL.

Credits:

• Photo of swell ass courtesy of Ass Attack!, author unknown.
• Image composition of Shakespeare and spanked lady by Dioneo Daspanca.  I forget where the component images come from, except that the brush comes from the famous Norman Rockwell illustration.
• Handshake frame from Predator, acquired from Google Images.
• Photo of lady fishing by Andrew Lucas, via Tush.
• Photo of lady standing at wall courtesy of Time Out! via MarQe's Study.
• Photo of schoolgirl from SpankingScenes, via Poppy's Submissions.  Enhanced by Dioneo Daspanca.
• Photo of man fishing off Nantucket acquired from Google Images.

I Play an Instrument

I play an instrument
 That pipes like a flute when percussed,
  And hums like an oboe when strummed,
  And sings like strings when tounged.

I play an instrument
 That I can play with my fingers,
  And my hands,
  And my very own bow.

I play an instrument
 That lubricates at the sound of a clapper,
  And chirps at the sight of a piccolo,
  And swells at the touch of bongo drums.

I play an instrument
 That sounds dulcet,
  And guttural,
  And bombastic.

I play an instrument
 That I can make vibrate like a timpani,
  And whir like a bagpipe,
  And wail like a trumpet.

I play an instrument
 That never needs to be tuned,
  And sounds lovely when wet,
  And can even play itself.

I play an instrument
 That has the curves of a cello,
  And the shine of a saxophone,
  And the grace of a harp.

Photo courtesy of Chocolate Puss's Erotic Garden, original source unknown.

Apology Limerick

"Worry not, dear readers!
I will surely convey your
displeasure to this slacker!"

So shameful this blog that I've hosted,
Approaching a week since I've posted.
   I haven't had time,
   For spanko-themed rhyme.
It should be my butt that gets toasted!

In other words, I apologize that I have neglected you, dear readers. I hope that my current dearth of time and inspiration is short-lived and that I may soon return to posting regularly.

The Last Dance of the Damned

Seam of heaven torn,
Sky births sea.
Dropless rain pummels
Without compassion.
Our clothes, our hair, our skin
Saturated.
Our lust insatiate.
Our thirst unquenched.

Violent deluge chokes our sight,
But washes not away the taste of skin.
Entangled, we feast,
To consume one another
Before taken by the sea,
To meet our end
Not with a whimper,
But an orgasmic scream
That almost pushes back the torrent.

For while pure in heart,
We were not in mind nor deed,
And so denied boarding,
Cast away,
Driven, beaten, hammered with invective,
From deliverance-vessel.

Left,
To drown as we revel,
To die as we have lived,
To burn as we have loved.
Lost in the diluvial finish,
The ultimate embrace,
The last dance of the damned.

---

This image was the subject of a Flash Fiction Friday last month (July 9, 2010).  I didn't participate then because I didn't yet have a blog, but the image was too inviting for me not to write something.  The prompt for the FFF was:

Your challenge for this Friday, 7-9-10, was to use the photo above to write a flash fiction of 48-148 words. I also provided a key phrase for use somewhere in the submission: "...driven, beaten, hammered..."

Image provided by Luna Mauvaise, original source unknown.

Waiting at Brick Wall

I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;

Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

-- William Shakespeare, Sonnet 58

Cold brick wall cools the blush.
Shame-fever eased by dispersion,
Malapert longs for diversion,
To think not of the brush.

White brick wall reflects sorrow.
Penitent revealed completely,
Hoping that he acts discreetly,
Else dreading tomorrow.

Thick brick wall muffles sound.
Murmuring from celebration
Driving sense of isolation
And fear of secrets found.

Rough brick wall tickles brow.
Quivering from bass transmitted,
Guilt and shame o'er deeds committed,
Both feed churning stomach now.

To brick wall she will sing.
Whimpering, gut wrenched in her woes,
Waiting there trembling, for she knows
What nearing footsteps bring.

Image courtesy of Time Out! via MarQe's Study.

Ecce Spanko -- Canto I

My ear perceives the whirring fan above.
The hours few, the darkness still. The sun
Remains below the lake in rest, in sleep.
Yet I again against my will awake.

What dream had I that sets my heart apace?
Which trouble takes my slumber, gives me fright?
A flutt'ring pulse, belabored breath. In sweat
I lay, my eyes agape, my soul unnerved.

I bend to rise, look to the hum, and feel
The air caress my hair invisibly.
Away from emptiness I turn, to her,
My sleeping belle, my warm and gentle love.

The dim and creeping light illumes her arm
As does the moon rebound along the dunes.
My fingers trace the lightened path to reach
A slowly sloping beach and woven sea.

My palm is taken by the swell and floats
To fall between the waves and comes to rest.
Caressed by calefaction from a spring.
My mind is lulled, in rapture I am calmed.

The waves now shine in locks astride her pout.
They throw the light across to seated me.
My eyes are locked on her, a marble glare.
My breath relaxed, my arms in comfort wait.

She stands afront my knees, her hands adjoined.
Her fingers fidget as she bites her lip.
The lip does quiver, trembling with her knees.
To these her eyes remain affixed in shame.

I take her hand and lift, my touch controls
Her moistened eyes, contriteness screams in stare.
A gentle tug extracts a whine and tear
As she succumbs and falls across my lap.

Her heavy breath, the sound of breaking waves.
The sea I see below, the tide at peak.
I am the moon, for whom the tide retreats
And splendidly reveals what lies beneath.

Appeased, I lay my hand upon the sand.
The stirring beach becomes serene, so soothed
By gentle touch, by strong and shading palm.
The windless air, the calm before the storm.