Smoldering, As Always

08 Mar

————–

 

“You know these new novels make me tired. My God! Everywhere I go some silly girl asks me if I’ve read ‘This Side of Paradise.’ Are our girls really like that? If it’s true to life, which I don’t believe, the next generation is going to the dogs. I’m sick of all this shoddy realism.”

 

One for Dick Caramel

 

My contemporaries suggested

that she torture the madness out of me

give me a peek at her upon undress

then tearfully subside to meek distress

shake her head and recount past failures of love

make artificial lornness of her quim

pretend that I was a debased beast with eager fingers

too quick for a demure De Sade.

She’d quiver to pretend a hesitation,

while I was left with a marveled fascination

of how she could lay upon the bed

dutifully nude, a wetted blossom between her hips,

and yet refrain as though the symphony was yet unwritten

as though the Kapellmeister forgot his magical baton

like a lubricated Berlioz removing damnation from the title.

She knew I wanted her

there with no averseness

a crazed juggler of perversions

that she carefully crafted to personify iniquity

while I mildly saw myself as an illiterate Aquinas

paranoid that they’ll start burning writers again

bare along with their thoughts and clothing words

braying gleefully to find the hooves underneath their soles.

So while she was nude and I was merely tattered

a sway of mood finally eased her into crescent

she chanted while I swallowed her humid breath

and we had a new ceremony to celebrate

like children without a god.

She disrobed from her failed intent

gave in to me

as was customary for the reckless muse

and was, in no lost irony,

the one that was consumed.

———-

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Jack Tsoy Tumult

Morose Pontifications and Other Poetic Ramblings


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