Haiku No.16 – Summer Encounters

🌀Haiku No.16 – Summer Encounters.

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Passion doesn’t wait for the changing of seasons…

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I was feeling like a completely loved up pansy on the train, & wrote this poem.

I want you to scrunch your face up at me.

I dance for you, with a smile I gyrate,

The smell of my moisturiser intertwined with the music you don’t quite hate.

All for the love of that face,

I can’t go out in public without something silly to say, you pray – please try to behave.

It’s all for the feeling I crave,

The love that swerves around agitation, to feather and tickle embers into flame.

You look so pretty, can you give me a taste?

Or even a hug, i’ll take anything, I promise I won’t hesitate.

You always make me glad I came,

Even when death may try to stop me, i’ll live forever in the scrunch of your face, fighting off any grey & playing Jester games till the end of days.

Framing the sun that lives in your face,

The soft collections of hair trailing the top of your ear to its base – Trafalgar side burns that were love laced.

In the end I just wanted to write the truth, love and Cake Face.

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh


© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2018. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

My latest short story for you guys & gals! Love, Violence & Strength in 500 words.

Mother & Shield

A beauty crying uncontrollable tears, it’s a pain you can feel through the cracked and worn door. Take your focus to another closed off room, and some monotone repetition of desperate spells will be heard behind it. This hallway is one of millions that infest the structures of the strong and powerful vessels of the age. These elegantly designed vessels foster life, bring warmth to winter’s kisses, and invite cool mountain air to breath when our nearest sun is harsh with its rays. No matter the placement or poise, the sound of rain can still echo the endless hallways, sometimes wearing at the foundations like the blunt tools of the early patriarch. Despite the flaws beneath, it can withstand, for those that withstood. They remain this way because there are locked rooms inside all women.

I try to open my eyes; it hurts, the left one refuses completely and continues to swell. The floor is cold and I think I’m bleeding. The storm outside can’t drown out the sound of Justin screaming. He’s reaching for me, crawling quickly like he used to before the illness. His desperation eats away at the red paint on my fragile heart; it makes me weak and pale. My instincts tell me to grasp for my child, but I need that monster’s attention focused this way. ‘Don’t worry my little J., mummy will be fine’, I mouth to him as I struggle to my feet. My legs tremble – ravaged by the adrenaline. This kitchen used to feel bigger; at least it was when we bought it the summer your mum passed away. In fact, you said that very thing to me that day, whispering in my ear so the estate agent wouldn’t notice. Now, I only feel the lack of escape. The one in front of me, dead eyed and lost to empathy, is not the man you introduced me to Jenny. He’s twisted, deformed from love into the shape of hate.

Yesterday.

-“Who’s texting you at this time of night?” he said, meandering into the kitchen groggy. Even from a couple of feet away, I could smell the rust of whiskey on his breath.

-“My boss, he saying there’s an emergency at the office, one of the interns has deleted a bunch of presentations due for tomorrow.” My reply was natural to the point of naiveté.

-“What does he need you for? There are plenty of other male I.T people he can call.” A kiss of his slightly stained teeth closed the sentence.

-“It’s my job.” I responded with the fatigue of a hundred song and dances. He turned his head to me from his perch on the kitchen stool and said.

-“To fuck him?” Those words, said with a dry threat were a warning and challenge.

Now.

Trapped in between one hazard and the next, my arms are raised half-mast in worn out fear. Blind to my white flag, he comes again.

Close your eyes and lock the door.

 

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh


© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2018. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Haiku No.14 – Faded

Haiku No.14🌀- Faded

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Another non traditional one 🤓 there are many moments in life that leave you feeling ‘faded’ – Drinking is often the worse solution to the problem. Luckily I’ve never used alcohol in this way. However, it doesn’t mean you’re immune to feelings of regret or longing whilst under the influence.

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That isn’t the poems only meaning, my work is always multilayered 🤓so delve in as deep as you can handle!

The perpetual war of all against all.

Was on the train thinking about the will to never give up, to fight every battle life throws at you with the energy of a supernova. Oh, and also about Goku.

Figurinism

Stopping is easy. But what can you draw out from the soul when death and failure are left holding hands with yesterday? Tomorrow.

Another 24hrs to fight, another day in a long line of days that you overcame when overcome. The slow drying cement that is time, ticks & tocks at your throat. The gaps between mock the air in the breath and reprieve.

Scream the landscape bare, shake the earth, and burn the atmosphere. Eradicate feeling and reduce all things to the sum of your war.

‘This is how winning is done’

By Alpha Cauwenbergh


© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2015. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

A poem about Vegeta…The greatest fictional character of all time.

The Dying Planet & The Prince

Vegeta poem

The Dying Planet

Starlight, pass me not.

Starlight, silver fingers stretching across the black consciousness in reach.

Starlight, a feel of loss.

Starlight, glitter beyond abyss, tides of time will reach the hopeless beach.

 

The Prince

Kill, I tried – soaked the earth with my pride.

Again nothing came, spirit ablaze – the level reached, just the same.

Kill, I died – my race I couldn’t save, it dwindled in size.

Again, life replenished anew, legendary form – but nothing was the same.

Recoil did my appetite – disgust, in broiled were the fallen ones in rust.

Of skill, of mind, of everything in time – dishonour, it’s nigh, higher level, must climb.

The God of end – our fates were bent, this power is true, a lake tranquil and blue.

 

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh


© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2018. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

FINALLY IT’S HERE! The penultimate chapter of my Sci-Fi erotica!

Link to Part One

Link to Part Two

Deep With You – Part Three: Bondage

A flesh and blood vessel propped up and bent to the point of strain. Clothed only in chains, your spirit held down with the wet and warm weaknesses exposed. What is it to be slave? The highest form of love? Or the empty nothingness of un-reciprocated giving? The truth is, a master resides above both.’

Nine days on.

In the blemish-less, hermetically sealed laboratory of the Trafalgar 7, Dr. Samoy was tirelessly working on her dual objectives. Almost in a trance like state of focus, she manipulates the lifeless organism in her gloved hands. The gloves, a product of Black Tech Industries’ (BTI) work on combining human flesh with synthetic polymers. They allowed her to feel its steaming innards with the clarity of a cannibal’s first plunge into another. There in lay the key question…why was this organism’s cells still producing heat energy post-mortem? As her masterfully agile mind navigated that question, her mobile holocom device beeped twice. It was silver, slender and translucent in design – reminiscent of twenty first century phones. It began to glow red, this was the colour she’d assigned to the person messaging. The notification read: ‘All preparations are set, the Devil has agreed to the trade.’ With attention now split, she left her metallic workstation of ornaments and medical utensils, to discuss with her father an entirely different form of dissection.

Only hours away, across the dark diamond dotted emptiness between ship and destination, the Empress was waiting. Reigning upon The rock amoung rocks, a moon of a planet deceased long ago from molten cancer. A small section of a larger inhospitable solar system, home to three war ravaged planets. Space here somehow seemed heavier, like the souls of the dead added substance to it. The fragmented corpses of human and sentient beings, floated within this eternal black milk, cold and forgotten for another day. However, all days in this system of the damned, belonged to her – Empress of Slaver’s Moon, Maureen Of The Devils Melancholia.

Deep within her moon, a castle built of excavated pearl coloured marbel surroundings – this moon cavernous only in density. Inside that, an offensively decadent room she called ‘The Womb’, was where she sat. An ash grey throne against one of it’s four red and gold walls, facing inwards. Two slender humanoid beings; lavishly dressed in embroided robes that left only their LED red eyes visible, guarding left and right sides, as she considered all she owned. Which, in this chamber was twelve – mostly human males, with several others fitting neither category. All who chose to place clothes upon their person were sweating profusely; those without still gleamed with the latent moisture of effort. This was why the Empress referred to it as The Womb. It was designed to be hot and moist at all times, a place to gestate her sexual perversions.

The way she was created: outwardly a vision of a gentle women, full, satisfied and aged from years of mothering, was a cruel fable. Inside she was barren, the organs present, but just desert scape from birth – the entrance synthetically sealed. The rumours floating the halls of this vast sanctuary were that she was a fallen android from the AI revolution on Earth One. The final model of those built for repopulation protocol 6. Now powerful, twisted and bent towards owning what she could never experience – Life and Sex. In front of ‘her’ were individuals of different age, sex and species; suffering various forms post traumatic stress disorder, and all engaging in various duties at the Empresses’ behest. Some, preparing her next meal of the finest imported organisms; other’s cleaning the floors beneath the subtlety swaying sexual contraptions above – occasionally, they dripped something warm. The remainder, haunted by their own memories, would cower in corners hoping for reprieve.

As she watched them perspire and trickle from mid back to the curvature of their bruised cheeks, she reminisced back to moments immaculately stored on her cerebral hard drive. One, of a caucasian human male in his twenties; strong, supple, and bound naked to an ergonomic table. Limbs, spread star-shaped and restrained by old red ropes that had eaten away the flesh on his wrists and ankles. She remembered the look of blood vessel sprawling, red-eyed exasperation on his face, as she commanded the male Hylian from a distant galaxy – ashen with the strength of two men – to masturbate him without mercy, continuing forcefully through multiple cycles of erection, discharge, and recuperation. He had endured this for three cycles already. The lubrication required was running low, the time needed to stroke him out of flaccidity – extending painfully. His defiant moans were becoming screams of derision. The Hylian, lacking in empathy, continued the cruelty, even as the man’s pride lay pathetically limp in his unforgiving and coarse grip. She had her favourite moments within this ballet of hollowing extraction; the image of the man’s sweat drench abdominals convulsing viciously after each ejaculation, or the tears that inevitably flowed from the eyes of the hopelessly tortured, as reproductive organs moved aimlessly inside their wrinkled sack in search of the impossible. However, beyond the sights was the most important thing, the smell. The sad scent of his humiliation; the combined perfume of his body odor and ejaculate trickling slowly off the stained hands of his alien abuser. All of which, accentuated with the note of ripe vaginal fluid, still moist in his pubic hairs from a previous un-consented ordeal. The Devils Melancholia lived for this, her senses augmented beyond human limits, created an almost ethereal experience from the visceral scent.

Another treasured memory she replayed at least a few times a day, was the most stomach turning…but probably the most relevant to her twisted and bitter psyche – the sodomy of the Haitian twins. Being the last people of Earth One to become vegan, they’re scent is said to be noticeably different in the nose of an android, tales go as far as to say they carry the flavor of swine in their darkest openings. Empress Maureen owned the last two in the know galaxies, she worked them hard and often.

In a room where darkness was only slightly cleared by blurs of artificial starlight above. Two of her most athletic female guardians; pregnant, and strapped with well-endowed synthetics, approached ominously. High end and ready, the synthetics were oozing a softly illuminating substance from their micro pores. They self-lubricated like carnivorous sexual deviants, and the wielders pointed them towards their meal. The Empress would grin from the edge of the room; robbed, and hooded as her Haitian slaves trembled nauseously. Only restrained from the waist down and bent over a make shift shelf of unknown material, their arms were free to animate fatigued flails for mercy. Even in such a low-lit space, she could perceive it all, the croaked groans of dried throats as each was forcibly spread open and plunged into. Her pregnant warriors, aided by the length of the synthetics could easily stroke pain and guilty pleasure into them. The glowing substance splashed and dripped down their legs. The twins – side by side – scratched at their own thighs in neurotic anticipation of the depth to come. Their pigmentation made the un-violated parts of them almost invisible, but all things in this heat and stench-saturated room, were perceivable to the Devils Melancholia. The devil’s favourite thing? That each synthetic was different in girth. Meaning, every time the bulbous guardians facetiously swapped victim, the twin’s bodies – unable to acclimatize to either, would be reintroduced to that first eye-watering plunge again…and again.

This was, and is the Slavers Moon Anissa and Captain Dryake approached…

Back on the Trafalgar 7.

-“Captain we’re approaching landing velocity.” A digital voice said from the bridge’s audio systems.

-“Thank you Chief.” Dryake responded, while standing pensively in front of the bridge’s Digitised three by three meter window. It was their only view into the outside, and it displayed in HE (Human Eye) definition, the chaos that was this moon’s surface and orbital surroundings. The space around the cracked and rugged terrain of Slavers Moon, looked like a collision of planets and asteroids paused half a second after impact. Drayke was so focused on it, he pulled back his consciousness from the men and women in his charge, staring, and waiting for his orders. Not in all his years serving had he been so conflicted about a mission. Just before his silence alerted the first waking of anxiety in his crew, Anissa slips her hand into his fist and whispers, “My Captain, take hold of your choice like you do me, if it shifts away, bend it towards your heart and it will succumb to you.” Her words, flowed through him like a soft massage, and he felt the freedom that came from release. Drayke, was now able to trust his instincts, and the plan they came up with together amidst their warm slumbers entwined – legs held between blood warm thighs; heads, resting and hearing the slow beat of a heart loved.

-“Land her 1 click from the entrance to the north subterranean levels Chief, the co-ordinates should be on your pod screen now.”

-“Yes Captain.”

The entire ship’s crews began their own particular preparations for landing: The engineers saw to the ships thrusters and lading mechanisms, the medical department made sure all first response healing gels, where fully stocked into the med kit being taken off the ship; and severe trauma operating rooms were prepared for the worst. The mercenaries rehearsed various tactical battle protocols, while cleaning all the grade one weaponry, Anissa’s deep pockets could bestow. Finally, the kitchen crew – consisting predominantly of AI – had a task perfectly suited to an unfeeling computer program, to reassess and adjust on board ration limits in real-time, if and when the total crew number raised of fell.

However, the most meticulous final preparations involved only two individuals, one lost in lust and emotional transference – of the Freudian kind. The other, simply a lost child, looking for validation.

-“Fuck, I didn’t even know I could do that” Blaise said, under the duress of sexual fatigue. She lay exposed on her bed; skin still emitting the chemically induced heat of climax. She was looking up at Dr. Samoy, her face red with emotions she had no time to indulge.

-“ The female reproductive organ is much more versatile than most realise. When you’ve studied it, and the anatomy of all the known species as much as I have, making you eject that volume fluid is child’s play.” She says, while wiping her slim fingers with a near by hand towel.

-“Still, I’m surprised…it’s never happened before, what is it? It feels like I fucking pissed myself. Blaise says embarrassingly, as she reconciles with the large damp patch under her bum and thighs.

-“Technically you did; It’s urine, diluted with a prostatic-specific antigen typically produced in men by the prostate gland. In women it’s produced by the Skene glands. However, in actuality a ‘true female ejaculation,’ is far less exciting. Dr. Samoy’s tone floated between caring and not so – Blaise could never pic up these subtleties.

-“I love it when you talk science Doctor.”

-“Look, we’re landing soon, clean yourself up and change the sheets. Time to focus.”

-“I know, I know… but are you sure it’s going to work?” Blaise said, as she began getting up and tending to the mess.

-“ Of course, how long have I been planning this? We have more than half the ship’s crew behind us too. One way or another I’ll get it done.” Dr. Samoy’s eyes glazing over with a conviction, Blaise still hadn’t recognized as self-serving ambition.

-“And after that, together, we can leave this floating coffin, and run our own facility with Black Tech Industries back on Earth Two. So much was her belief in the web of love and insubordination they had spun, she spoke the words completely on auto pilot. However, behind Blaise’s scuttling and tidying, Dr. Samoy had already left.

Back at the underground castle, the Devil’s Melancholia, not immune to the compulsion for preparation, organised for the crew of the Trafalgar 7s arrival. The subsequent rendezvous, had been organized by the political representatives of both sides half a year in advance. The outcome of which could change the face of the known galaxies, and she prepared accordingly.

A blue-pigmented female of unknown planetary origins, stood up from a muddy grey coloured table of six. Standing over seven-foot tall, with her hair immaculately styled into braids, she was clad in a precious metal and stone armor of practical design. The five other individuals –four female, one male – sat around this table staring at her, each of their armors and physical characteristics were anchored to their galactic origins. She turned towards the throne, and with a stern voice rippling in an alien dialect; she echoed words throughout the vast spaces within ‘The Heart’ – the chamber where all battle strategies were formed. “Empress, your ‘Dead Army’ have been deployed to all the designated positions of favour, and your ‘Slave Escort’ is chained and ready to depart at your malevolent convenience.”

-“Thank you General, has the messenger been sent to the ulterior location?”

-“Yes Empress, he’s scheduled to meet the contact within 15 minutes of their landing.”

-“Good, now let’s go see what the famous Captain Dryake D. Hamilton has to say.”

Meanwhile the landing party of the Trafalgar 7, were preparing to disembark. All five were congregated in the well-lit atmosphere integration chamber, and dressed in the ship’s vintage dark yellow ‘Reinforced Skin’ under armour; it was tight and left little to the imagination. The party of five consisted of: Captain Drayke D. Hamilton, Princess Anissa Ife, Commander James Dean; leader of the ‘Hidden Shield’ Mercenaries, Dr. Jasmine Samoy, and Lead Engineer Blaise Spur. As typical of any off world mission, each individual had to be injected with the translator serum. This extremely expensive serum, consists of preprogrammed microorganisms that attach to selected brain synapses allowing for the translation of all known languages. Dr. Samoy had administered the serum to all four of the five members, including herself. The last person left was Anissa Ife, ever since she was a child she had always been a great judge of character. As Dr. Samoy approached with the petit serum transfer pen in hand – Anissa remembered how little she cared for the Doctor, and her curve-less figure. Dr. Samoy stood close and asked for Anissa’s hand, the light from the atmosphere integration chamber, refracted off it like a blade. The serum transfer pen’s stainless steel appearance was predominately entrapped by her deviously dexterous fingers. Her left hand, held Anissa’s in a grip easily mistaken for something with intimate design, while clasping the transfer pen expertly in the other. She pressed it on her, and looked straight into Anissa Ife’s eyes as the cold pen bit into her skin.

There was an awkward moment of stillness between them both, until Anissa pulled away to console the tingle on her hand. She looked annoyed yet preoccupied with other thoughts. Most likely, those of how she would perform on – without question the most important negotiation of her short political career. As the princess turned away, Dr. Samoy, couldn’t help but observe the Reinforced Skin gently rub Anissa in places she knew Drayke’s mind played. Just as the feelings of a familiar jealously began to swell, a stare of satisfaction roamed through the busyness of bodies; eventually meeting eyes cold with calculated intent – Blaise Spur, and Jasmine Samoy had recognised each other and smiled.

To Be Concluded

By Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh


© Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc 2018. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alpha Maurice Cidade Cauwenbergh – Storyteller, Poet & Intern at Wordsmith Inc with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.