Chaowai (Shades)

In Chaowai, there are shades, sweet spices, voices, California expressions in Beijing walls, women on women, ghost from past social registers that come to call.

Maryanne in lurid beauty comes to call in 29, milky skin she’s a cutie, a parasol that turns a dime. Like a doctor to see a lawyer, eyes slanted in their mist, Ruan leaves her hands on her breast, and some say their cocaine prints. There was a time in San Francisco, Maryanne would walk on, not fall in jades of darkness, wet love, no not at all.   But the shades, in old Peking, that entice her, the sliding body on the bed, it’s the haunting of past kingdoms, it’s the lust in her head.  Greetings tea, libraries, dynasties, tombs, and all seduction, a passion on a nationalist fray, shades of sixty-nine, such fun, while soldiers walk by such an ordinary day.

Ruan turns her parasol, eyes brown, maybe gray, instantly haunted, while the California woman shades her body, she’s a flapper, she sashays. The year of the snake, shadows on the wall, erotica, haunted, together, come to California with me, there in wine, and cocaine with Maryanne, more than a Chinese shade to me. Ruan takes her cigarette, her long, unbroken smoke, and turns to write epithets on the papered wall.

Liang watches his smoke curdle, he’s a solider, with broken dreams, dead inside with all the opium, oh his spirit how it screams.  And at night while in Xiang, bloody and ruined in war, he taste and sees, shades in Chaowai, woman on woman, such rumors he can’t ignore.  He waits his mind on providence, his soul ground to the bone.  His knifes of his negotiation, letters of promises, the facts that he has known, and he waits, in shades, so long in shades.

The night it falls, in baritone, neither heavy nor deep, in cocaine, in skin, like cotton, while torches light the keep, and the music of love, the music of sex, and the moans that haunts us all. A horsemen he comes riding his anger will not stall.  That officer in brown and green striding, his opium, those eyes that gleam. A matter of time worth taking, the matter of the seam.

Oh Liang, home from yellow rage, the fevers and blood, the bedroom door is open, there the making of the lust. Through terrible music and passionate screams their bodies unfolding, while his knife sings, the bloody illusion in ole Peking, of Ruan and Maryanne dead while echoes ring.

It’s true just now, as I walk through this house, this craven reminder of 1929, at 21 Chaowai, two woman wait, to be released from a maddening fate, that accompli with knives that Liang spelled, blessed by a spirit by the opium wells. I feel them, their bodies, in shades not new, waiting in this house for someone to let them loose.

In Chaowai, there are shades, sweet spices, voices, California expressions in Beijing walls, women on women, ghost from past social registers that come to call.

In Beijing in Chaowai (SoHo) 21 to be exact, among the glass and plastic stands an old house. If you go inside, you will find shades of a story. Shades of Maryanne of California and Ruan from Peking. It is 1929. Liang the Nationalist Officer is there too. The jealous husband with his knives. – 06.24.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


The Witxch (A Psalm of Eros)


She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves.

My older legs against the wall, for if I tell you speak of all, that magic spell that’s in my side that erupts pleasure makes it nice. What turn I this a gift to you that comes, in sinew, through and through. While lovers gasp in air of last, my spirit takes you shoving fast. This witxch, this witxch that comes through me, that loves to love and sometimes leaves. This treasure in the night or day, spinning your hips, your moisture play, and then on top on down you come, your back in stars, and water sums. Hold me, hold me, upon the bridge between your sighs, while lovers breathe, and change the world where shadows play, into your longing, of foreplay.

Older a plain of running sieves, when we made pleasure in the leaves, when fall, came down, we could not last, joined in our bodies, fuming fast. Groaned on we, took the wind that blows and brings a hurricane to our bow, and shot our soul into the sea, did you not scream do me, do me. Anthology of all sexual past, of arms and breast and paths through past. To come together in the dark, sweet beat of organs, from first spark, that brings you, on me to call out, for tasting nether where passion starts. Where bodies writhe in wayward games, and breath so heavy in their stay. Oh beam of human that will not last join into spirits, free at last, for Eros flies in mind unseen, releases nerves all energy, and cums and cums, and licks away, what word of stillness that moans with play.

Have you sweet woman wished a witxch, that there shy lad, with dark eyes thick. Did you not know when ember flames, and moons cross meadows, high western plains? It is then he turns into rain. And, his hard sex, becomes the prose, that takes you under, as he goes. Beyond all era time of the past, be still the future, while you bed, and then until your stated still, your perspired body, has had its fill. No one will know, the screams you’ve had, in privacy, the night done past. Has this now made you want the spell of witxch’s garden, from the well?

She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves. – 05.12.2015 –
דָּנִיֵּאל