The mesmerized blue haze of the swirl of the opium pipe, intoxicated, drunk from the perfume from the white flake. Not the Samurai, nor the cut shoned blade before seppuku, nor of the geisha's memories, I am Chinese, Tang, Ming, Szechwan are our dynasty's. Old, ancient, secreted in sexual mysteries of the great wall, and I am concubine, constructed of the Yangtze's yellow saffron river of pain, silk, death and of the essences of the herb, the earth and the pleasures of the rice wine.

I am Concubine, wrapped feet, tiny small, hobbled for my masters delight. I am nude under the obi, a child of memories, naked, approached, lingering for a moment, a man, a lord, a God, he will choose me. Then, then I will, adorned in pearls, rouge and black musk eyes, not as Kabuki, not as the dancer, the actress, but as a blood princess that has been born to please, suffer, understand, as the earth spawns life, and loves, nurtures and gives life to our sisters the great trees.

I am concubine, a perfume lost in the skies, a women, a child of mirth, gaiety, grief, love and death woven of emeralds and moonstones and my Liege awaits, my body, my youth, my spring well of virginity. I, this well spoiled creature of structure, learned, taught, mistress of lyre and flute, a violin strung of blue pearls, for pleasure for the war lords are made of brutality, sensitivity and creativity.

I am concubine, a mystery of a dying people. Yet elegance rebounds along the deers trail, he is here, now, I glide, I have been taught you see, graceful and beautiful, silk, sashes of knowing, the teak sticks woven into my hair, black, onyx, white skin, a symphony of delight. Within this moment of tears, now, the King, of an empire of kings, is about, standing like Confucius, erect, engorged, a statue, of eminence, exhausted from the wars of the scimitars. So I approach, am shy, naked and nude, under the flowers of the pagoda, fans of pleated paper of reed as he touches me, enters me. He is marvelous, magnificent, he honors me, he is a great man, I am ready to die.

I am concubine, a solar flare of denial, as he takes me in his armored arms, forgets, inside, the pain, the joy, I am a delicate reed bending, morose, weeping, laughing, for now he has laid me upon the silk patterned laces of his bed. I smell his breath, feel his coarse skin, the greatness of his penis, I am honored. His skin, like a reptile, his smile, his penis, it is the organ of a past of emperors, and now he is God again in his way, and I buck, frail, such magnificence, such woe. I scream, it is what he wants and I am concubine and this is my Kings reward for his greatness, where is his sweetness.

I am concubine, reusable, a shard of porcelain expendable, renewable, deniable, a vessel for a moment of reward, unseen, un heard, unknown. My exact agony is never seen, until age, the grim secret that destroys, eats the body, the face, the symmetry of a child, is gone, then I will evaporate, vaporize, cease to be the beautiful courtesan I was once known to be. A discarded object never seen, never known, a valueless object of orgasm, semen and a masters dream

I am concubine, and I have never been seen, and now death is at hand as the petal flowers dissolve within the wind of a dynsasty and I pray it has, it was, and it has always been a nightmares of a Chinese and Imperial forgotten dream.