Lyrics, poetry and art all meshed together

Saturday, October 28, 2006


My emotions amplify at the sight of him. I stand still in Solomon’s penthouse. It’s the only suite on a twelve-story condominium with two sprawling terraces offering a perversely bold view of the Hudson River. The city’s dazzling lights crystallize the water like a blanket of twilights. Tonight I feel less glamorous. Four nights ago I was his synthetic product; the haute couture girl in a sequined Oscar de la Renta dress and Prada shoes, with hair weaved in layers, makeup outdone. All which were contribution from his cash and credit cards. But now I am a picture of insecurity. Beauty ran out the window and jumped off somewhere between guilt and self-consciousness. I am a woman who is focused, who has her priorities straight. I am awake from his prosperous world that surrounds me.

Solomon’s stare is bold. “Claudine, you were missed.” His smile serves so many purposes and is contagious. His eyes dance a smoldering flame sending a feverish ache between my thighs and I am taken back to the first time we met. Edward had told me about a party at a museum where he got hired as a security guard, he encouraged me to attend and even though we had no money he borrowed from a friend to buy me a nice dress for the gallery’s summer exhibition. It was the first time I was introduced to art and the electricity of one man who took my breath away. Solomon.

He arches an eyebrow. “It’s been a week. All you had to do was call me.”

“I’ve decided to stay with Edward.”

He nods, unable to hide his disappointment. “I know it wasn’t an easy decision, clearly the best man won over your heart.”

I say, “I’m doing what feels right.”

“Obviously, you are.”

My heart says its right to be with my husband, but I feel my skin charring off from Solomon’s lack of touch.

I take a good look at this ambitious and highly accomplished human being who has given me what money can’t buy. When the money is long gone I will always remember him and our intimate scenes a thousand times over in my head. I know an experience like this will never come my way again. I can’t ever recall Edward treating me with such passion. I guess it has a lot to do with the common issues behind closed doors of his premature ejaculations, and his erectile-dysfunction medications that leaves him virtually depressed.

Solomon asks, “Can I have you kiss me one last time as if you mean it?”
I want more than that. I close my eyes; perhaps shaking my head will help to get rid of the thought of him penetrating me.

“Look, Solomon.” My voice changes, becomes firm. But I am powerless. My wall crumbles, turns into pebbles when we stand close. Too close.
His chiseled face baked by many sun looks down at me. I have the difficult task of looking up at him. Brown eyes in a bronzed face. A man who doesn’t have to say much to get me wet. The August air breezes in from the opened windows, whispering the strongest scent of desire.
I must walk away, I repeat to myself. But I am unable to move. The air still whispers a nonverbal secret through silk curtains. I am thirsty. I am hungry for him.

He says, “Time to say goodbye.”

My eyes swell up in tears. This is really goodbye. He leans down, his hands on my waist and the ferocity of his passion is found in his warm lips. He sucks on my tongue and I return the favor with urgency, feeling unconsciously swept away. I am spellbound when he lifts me up. I let out a moan. He takes me to his bedroom where he eases me down onto the king-sized bed which is dressed in rose petals. The huge Victorian-styled room is warmly lit with votive candles and incensed sticks offer a sweet fragrance of vanilla. That’s exactly the magical world I am trying to walk away from.
Solomon carefully peels off my clothes, my nipples firmed instantly under his touch. He leaves me naked in bed, pauses to undress and in the shadow of the night I see the beauty of his six-foot frame holding me captive. He licks my clit softly gently and put my legs over his strong shoulders. He then sucks from the source of life as if sucking hundred yards of water, making the sexiest sound with his tongue exploring through my pubic hair. With his hard body atop mine, his lips found the softness of my breasts then moves down to my stomach, placing butterfly kisses on my navel. I gasp with enthusiasm when he strokes his swollen dick lovingly against my belly. I spread my legs wide enough to welcome him. He lifts me up slightly against the bed, his hands are firm under my buttocks and my breathing becomes heavy with anticipation. He slid himself inside me and I found myself drowning in a floodtide of ecstasy. I wrap my legs around his waist and his groan is deep with bass. My bottom rises. I grip onto the sheets, welcoming each of his thrust which sends me to a spasmodic quake unchoreographed by his own tremors. My spasms are sweetened like juice on his bed mixed with tears of joy, sadness and confusion. Over and over he whispers his love for each part of my body, kissing me from my forehead down to my toes.
We breathe hard with sweat when we go two more rounds and gradually we slow down, falling into each other’s arms like two peaceful doves. Asleep.


A little over a year flies by quick. I am pushing my daughter in her stroller. We were coming from Madison Park’s playground. It is a dry windy day, nice enough to sit and watch other parents in the park pushing their little ones in the swings. My girl is too little but she loves to watch the older kids have fun. Everything is so new to her. I am walking down 27th and Park Avenue, my stomach growls with hunger. I stall when I pass by a restaurant down the block where my husband warns me to never eat. I decide today is the day to give this eatery a try, more concerned about my empty belly. I stroll in with my daughter and a hostess greets me with a casual smile.

She asks, “How many in your party?”

“One plus a child.”

I get seated at a booth by the windows and immediately I pull out my cell to call my husband.

“Hi baby, how are you?”

He says, “Busy as always. How’s the baby?”

I look down at Amerie on her stroller, drooling and chewing on a toy.

“She’s fine…I’m going to have lunch right now.” I don’t tell him where.

“Really? Alone?”

I say flirtatiously, “Well, you’re not close enough to stop by and join me.”

“Hmmmmmmm…think of me if you decide to have dessert.”

I purr, “I will. I love you.”

He says, “Me too.”

As soon as I hang up, a man standing nearby approach the table. He looks very familiar except now skin is flawless, no gray hair in sight and he is broad and muscular. I can see he has taken good care of himself. A makeover which makes him physically striking. We look at each other and the earth stops moving.

His voice is sharp. “Welcome, can I get you something to drink?”

My eyes shot up in surprise. “You work here?!”

He pulls out his notepad and pen. “Yes, and would you like to start with an appetizer?”
He doesn’t seem at all surprise by my reaction.

I say, “How are you? You look really good.”

”Thanks. What will you have?”

I look down at the menu losing my train of thought. “Uh…water is fine for now.”
He walks away and comes back with a glass of water. My mind is running this marathon, wondering if my husband is aware of this man working here. It might explain why he didn’t want me to ever step foot in this is uncharted territory. Amerie coos and wiggles her bottom on the stroller, her way of telling me she wants to get out. I’m not ready to set her free. I am in need of a strong drink to calm my nerves. My eyes roam around the empty restaurant, waiting impatiently on the waiter’s return. I have questions, questions
He emerges from the kitchen, and I try to figure out what he’s thinking.

He says with a hint of attitude, “I am not thrilled to see you here.”

“I…I know.” It is written all over his face.

“What do you want?”

I say, “I didn’t know you worked here.”

“Am I supposed to believe that?”

“Believe what you want.”

“Just like the night when you promised to leave Solomon and came back to me with lies…”

I say, “I can’t control what happened in the past.”

He shoots back, “Yes, I know. And I’m glad you have no control.”
Amerie waves her little hands up at me. I caress her curly locks and she giggles.

He asks, “How old is she?”
“Nine months”
“You did us a huge favor.”
“Excuse me?”

He says in a nasty tone, “By leaving me…you think you won but you didn’t.”

“Edward, this was never about winning or losing anything.”

“Yes, it was. It was all about money to you, nothing else mattered. Well, let me set the record straight. Two of us played the game and I was paid by your rich man to get rid of you. He wanted more than one night and I asked him for more money to let you go.”
I shout, “What are you talking about?” My heart is heavy and I feel a cold chill down my spine.
He says sarcastically, “You do understand the words coming out of my mouth, right?”

“Solomon would not pay you a dime. He loves me. It was never about the money.”

“Why don’t you ask him? As a matter of fact he will tell you the whole story. We were lovers…and when I lost my job at the hotel and asked him for his help he offered on the condition that I allow you to sleep with him whenever he pleased. I was disgusted with the idea and jealous but desperate for cash.”

“Are you telling me you two knew each other before I met him and that you’re gay?” I look at him in horror and disbelief. I feel as if a hand closed around my throat.

He continues, “He was a guest at the hotel where I used to work, that was the main reason why I got fired because they find out about our affair. Being with Solomon was just an experience; I’ve never been with any other man after him, besides it was all about the Benjamin’s, baby.”

“That’s not true; Solomon wouldn’t do this to me.”

Edward’s smile is vicious. “Oh yeah by the way he desperately wanted to have a baby and he knew with me, well, you know I couldn’t carry one for him. I guess he needed you and your egg around.”

I want to spit in his face and kick him in the balls, but some of what he’s telling me is probably true. I get up to leave. He is laughing his way to the bank and I am crying inside with a broken heart. My feet touch concrete yet I am no longer floating this cloud 9.
The End
© 10/2006 by C. Delaleu

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Cloud Games (Part 2)


I found him in the kitchen cooking. My husband is making meatloaf.
Probably defrosted the old ground turkey I had left in the freezer
There is no money in the bank so I know there are no groceries in the fridge
All we’ve been doing is write bounced checks left and right. I’ve been the only breadwinner ever since he got laid-off as a doorman at Borgata Hotel in Manhattan, due to an injury to his leg. My tips at Deja Diner were only enough to cover our utility bills. I am thrilled, such a relief jumping inside me knowing I am putting an end to our financial woes. I know he will breathe easy when he sees the money. The kind of money that will have us sitting pretty outside of Crown Heights, Brooklyn. A cool million might not be much but it is a new beginning of brighter and better days to come.
I stand at the entrance. The kitchen is small. Edward appears leaner not the same vibrant man I married five years ago. I see whiskers on his face with lack of sleep smeared under his eyes, reminding me how worried he was that I didn’t come home. I found myself wanting to kiss him, to thank him. His lips are always inviting, gentle. He is my friend first, my partner second, my lover, third.
I say, “Hi”
He says without looking up, “Hi”.
He adds spices to the meatloaf, puts it inside the oven, then pours rice from an Uncle Ben’s box to a pot of boiling water on top of the stove.
I say, “I didn’t know we had rice”
“We didn’t”
I try to read his expression and I fail.
He stands in front of the medium heat stirring the rice with a wooden spoon.
“Where did you get the money to buy rice?”
He ignores my question and asks, “How are you?”
I swallow, almost afraid to answer. “Ok”
“Slept well?”
“Not really”
“Me neither, I was worried about MY wife who took off three days ago.”
“Edward, you …”
He interrupts me vehemently, puts a hand in the air, “No! Don’t say it…don’t say I AGREED for this Negro to steal my woman’s v-a-g-i-n-a for a million bucks. I know damn well I didn’t force you into it.”
“You were there when he asked and you sat and listened to him…you said you didn’t have a problem with it.”
He snaps, “Just like when I’m drunk I say a lot of garbage…stupid shit to test you, to see if you’ll have the audacity to cheat on me. Your money-hungry ass disappeared, you couldn’t wait.”
“I did it for us; I know I should have called you.”
I try not to raise my voice.
He asks, “So, what happened? He gave you $3 million for three days of fucking. Did you at least use a condom?”
The bitterness in his tongue makes the kitchen even smaller. I look into his angry eyes and found myself searching for forgiveness.
He continues, “Be honest, was it worth it? Was it? To fuck a stranger like a whore, was it?”
I shake my head. Regret is growing down my throat making it hard to fight against the tears. I can tell by his use of profanity that he is beyond pissed. I want to hold him, for us to cry together, to ask each other for forgiveness. Then again why should I feel guilty for something he also agreed for me to do?
We both signed on the dotted line. We both wanted this one-night stand ignoring the consequences. Sadly, Edward doesn’t see it that way.
I yell, “How can I be looked at as a whore or money-hungry when I did this for us?”
I gulp lumps of anger. We look at each other in silence.
Then he says barely in a whisper, “My love for you is worth more than a million dollars.”
My heart aches under my breast as he walks out.
He exits and the warm kitchen is suddenly cold.
©10/2006 by C. Delaleu

(Part2 of 3)

Thursday, October 19, 2006

His sage eyes look at me and
a million flecks of color is sun-dappled on his back . We pull away from earth
while strapless corset is removed.
His Upper East Side is a brownstone
that greets my doorstep with a proposal.
He pulls me close to his warm body .
His smooth scent of amber and lavender
dances divinely on the cotton sheets
“I can’t stay.”
“But you can’t go…” he whispers with lust caught up in his throat.
“I must, I don’t have a choice,” I reply with sadness
And the thought of walking away from him tears me inside,
another sunless day without him, without his touch is like hell.
My hands involuntarily grab his hard penis
I love the feel of it
The length of it
The aroma of it
His erection is a curious strength calling me .
“How long are we going to do this?” He continues
“Do what?” I let go of his welcoming shaft,
knowing damn well where this was heading
“How long are we going to love without loving?” he says
“I do love you.”
“Then show me…leave him!”
“I can’t.”
His hand is a burning torch caressing my face.
I close my eyes again
Inhale his scent.
His warmness is pure harassment to my soul
I wrap my leg around his thigh,
allowing him a full view of my hungry clit.
It sings a hyper conspiracy of arousal
I am swimming in his sweet caramel eyes .
He places hot fingers inside me paying homage, taking residence of my central universe
I shudder with anticipation .
“This is my Caviar, I paid for it,” he says not tearing his eyes away from me
I shudder again.
Encouraging him with moans, feeling a rush of wetness as his fingers digs deeper .
Then he pulls out and licks my juice with a wide tongue.
He goes back again with tantalizing fingers torturing me.
My heart races with excited breaths.
And the million flecks of color reappear
The first set of tremors causing me to praise his sacred name,
Intensity grows on the second round of mind blowing orgasm.
Suddenly he stops.
I stare at him in wonder.
My pussy howling for him to resume .
He places a small kiss on my forehead.
“I’ll give you more where that came from if you leave him,” he says
“But this was supposed to be only for one night!”
I protest needing more of his magical touch.
“Remember, you agreed to sleep with me only for one night"
“Yes, I know, and it has nothing to do with the million dollars you gave me”
“Then you came back”
“You wanted me back. Now it’s time for me to return to him”
“He knows what you did, obviously he doesn’t love you enough to come and get you”
“Ed does care,” I say to my husband’s defense
“Claudine, you need to make a decision…you know what’s best. I want you for my queen, but you can’t be if you’re going to remain with this good for nothing…”
I take a deep breath, “Look, I will make a decision"
“I’m giving you until tomorrow”
Before getting off the bed, he gives me a tender kiss this time on the lips.
The minty taste of his tongue quickly curls up my toes.
I am left to make a not-so-easy decision
while my pussy throbs, refusing to dose off to sleep
©10/2006 by Cathy Delaleu (Part 1 of 3)
To be continued…

Sunday, October 15, 2006


And you wonder why a poem has the ability to turn into a novel
The first drop of words are incensed with passion clay
There are never any leftovers
No anorexia of readers
Every poet wants to screw a noun,
verb or pronoun
To name their poem their bitch
Or SHE prefers for him to build her a strong drink
Without the use of vodka
To spill distraction down her ankles
No protection needed to penetrate her audience
With moans and sighs
Her clit will purr regardless of the time
She’ll be turned on by the wetness of his game
Can a poem have that kind of skill?
Turn her stenographic clit into a novel?
Her fetish grin tells him what she likes
she sees from the mirrored ceiling how his poem
grows a kinky tale
softly he bites her navel
flips her around
spank her firm cheeks until her wetness tells him
she is ready for another stanza
she aches for the next set of reverie
he scribbles his name on her swollen nipples
write DOWN metaphors in her opening
jotting successive pages in circles
he is fearless
never stopping
finding words even further
something emerge from her screams
a river drafting lines of pleasure
slipping his rhythm
he improvise a slam very slowly
slams her soil with quivers
she flows sweetly into his poem like honey
he taste her gravity
too heavy to call poetry
strong enough to create chapters
he turns into a novel

©10/2006 by C. Delaleu

Thursday, October 12, 2006

My girly longings are poems tattooed within my vaginal walls
Unzipped at the hip for him to explore
His lips moist with whispers
Verses stolen from the song of Salomon
His conga he improvises with French lyrics
Spanish is not my forte but he can tell by my accent
Que je suis heureuse lorsque tu m’embrasse
De la tete au pied
Lorsque tu me regarde avec des yeux doux
Je vois la vie en rose
Oui je vois la vie en rose
He is lost somewhere in a cottage
In Europe
A whiff of love Jones he inhales
This love Jones of bourgeoisie
This love Jones that get us both too dizzy
as the French say tres romantique
my eyes caress him with a
Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir?
He puts it on me in his own Caribbean style
With ethnic hips that rotate with slang
Cranking the vulgarity of intercourse
It’s amazing how for a split second
I spoke another language

©10/2006by C. Delaleu
**Have you ever made love so good and find yourself speaking another language? :)

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Don't you hate it when you're trying to end a relationship, friendship or whatever ship you were sailing with someone all of a sudden they turn psycho-delic on you? Then they get more pissed cause you're not retaliating. The life of a stalker is a pretty dull one especially if his goal is to sit in his car in your neighborhood until his ass goes numb.
Well, I've experienced it and it's time to post my poem about a "commoner" and to help others understand why I won't ever date one again.

A commoner is someone who you have nothing in common with. Being physical is the only language understood but as far as anything else, it is totally foreign to him or her. See as poets you can't expect to be in a relationship with a commoner who has no skills. He/She should have at least one creative talent in order to understand where you're coming from...if not eventually it won't work. That's my opinion, so free your mind, express to me whether you agree or disagree.

Does a poet need to be with someone of his/her kind? or do you think a poet can educate the person they love into their lyrical universe?

I've dated my share of commoners and I seem to clash with those who don't appreciate the art world or the language of poetry. Having a cell phone stuck to your ear while you're walking around a museum is not the meaning of art appreciation or class.

Well, here is a poem dedicated to those commoners from the past, wherever you are.

Let science mute my thoughts
Or maybe I should express them
Like an angry crow to let you all know
Why I won’t date a commoner

I can’t date a man like you who can’t relate
Someone who believes poetry is for those
Who think with their eyes and not with their feet

You analyze me and decide you are the one who can
Make me reach cloud 9
When in reality I was born under an aristocratic sun
Made of well-bred skies without the help of mankind
My skin is the color of euphoria
That’s why you crave to see through my windows
To get familiar with my scent
You desperately cling to me but my poetry don’t
Provide to you an ignorant fuck
just like my mind, it is committed to a natural habitat
of sensual gathering

What can you provide?
You the man of few words and whose diplomatic behavior
Is arrogant enough to stand trial at the ultimate stalker club

You can’t even hide the carbon monoxide red of your eyes
Or contain the jerkily giggles that make you sigh when
You cum beneath me pretending you can rule the world
Wait a minute
My world is not for sale
For I could tell after six orgasms
Midnight stars equaled
A dry spell
You can only rock my bell
In the bedroom when is hot as hell

How can you expect to get with this Beautiful Black Dictionary
When your pictionary is a type S for special unit of ugliness
A typeface piglatin whose scum breath spells useless sex
You think with your mouth and not with your head
Head me straight to reality cause then hopefully I can
Zoom-lensed your masculinity to all of New York City
Travel down the five boroughs to let them all know
You were the ho ho ho little giant who thought
Getting with me would make you the Tall Black Beautiful Man

You made me weak

But weakness wakes up in the morning
Forget your ugly ass in the bed
Takes a shower
Stab loneliness away with a slip thong
Create solo sex with finger-licking avalanche
And I do it right
Cause I hold on to my scent
Get my freak on
Without Magnum or your Trojan friend
And I do it right
Cream filling in my hands
Your Twinkie not at all what it used to be
Only a spare tire I needed
When I felt hungry

See I won’t date a commoner
You got no skills
Can’t come correct
With lyrics and pornification

For now poetry is my mate
Until I can find the one
Who can swing his poetic balls at my face
again what do I have in common with YOU?

© 10/06 by C. Delaleu

Monday, October 02, 2006


I cook the earth with my thighs
Graze my curtains with a leopard mask
I intend to find myself a home to rest
My neck and original sins
I am too visible to zookeepers who
Hope to attract me to their sexual pilgrimage
Their chorus line is filled with a ten-foot high Bronx Zoo
Their yellow smile shines with blind reliance

I hold back the fruits Mom gave with sweet charity
I sucked her marrow like a dog
And became her brilliant ballerina
With the broken ankle
My swollen toes swirl with sad laughter
Mom tells me the beauty of many dishes
Lies in the caviar served richly
Should be eaten with permission
What remains to be seen
Should remain unseen
I repeat her words in my mind
But I race with lust
Ignore her plea
Undress with willingness
With a conquest to kill
To numb the rhythm of pain
To caress the pools of wilted petals
Found on my accented breasts

The earth now a virtual fireplace
Flickers my inner turmoil in a meatpacking district
I fill my belly with mojitos
To prolong the life I am scheduled to end
Without sound
© 10/2006 by C. Delaleu