This is the last photo from last Sunday's trip to Dow's lake. These ones are another purple variety, a great colour in a tulip.
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Notes on life in Ottawa, Ontario and occasional trips, mishaps, and other adventures
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This blog is about Sonja's perspective on everyday events in and around Ottawa, Ontario, and other essays that may principally interest her friends and family. Sonja seems to write most about special occasions, outings, and trips. Sonja's blog is meant to convey the original views of the author, and does not necessarily represent the views of any other person or organization. This blog is child friendly.
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A Night in the Purple Tulip Palace (by Adagio)
In this seraglio night always consists of moonlight, jade steps and a curtain of pearls
all imaginary a bunch of flowers against blue wallpaper
imagine caving in under the concubine's clothes a mound of snow
snow waiting impatiently to be possessed its crystalline body slowly
turning constantly curling in on itself in a slow dance
a bunch of tulips divesting itself of the love of self as it brightly declines
a kind of purple whisper which must be spoken breathily
addressing only him as he crushes the petals heavily
a drop of purple milk like a concubine impatiently waiting to be sucked
concentrating the entire world into one burning duct
In this seraglio fire always has the rude playfulness of tongues
a pointed tip licks the emptiness of skin midnight's cling
green like leaves gathered at the concubine's ankles
his preference for her a shower coming from every angle
watering the flower the little purple bowl of her nipple fills
in revenge against time the pigment holds ocean's deepest spoils
a bunch of tulips slips in a single night from soprano to mezzo
tonight tyrannous beauty is balanced by this aesthetic of erosion
this evasive scent which the concubine keeps for him alone and only lets him savour
when the silky light can't stop purple very gently splays open
In this seraglio there's always this dead bone phosphor light becoming a pistil's gleam
conducting the body's desire to be played for all four seasons
carving out this hole cut through the concubine's sculpted days
the wallpaper is blue like a crazy mind sewing up all past pains
only once the hours' bitemarks into each flower
darken endlessly the night is stitched onto flesh endlessly fresh and tender
once in the beginning purple gradually spread like a drop of milk
slowly absorbed by the universe which sees his lasciviousness and winks
by staring he bestows on the concubine a totally dark grammar
the vase is like a word resting between the hands
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