in the shadows of the depth
of woe's existence,
i was awakened by thoughts of disregard-
never ceasing to reason without intellect
I seek darkness,
the gloom that greys the ivory glazed moon
in r e d e m p t i o n
i fear not the obscurity-
but lather myself in dim swarthiness
of loss and regret;
drowning in a bath of coal never born
to be a precious diamond
wreckage is the epitome of what
my youth saw-
I wore burn holes to cover up the wounds;
scars fade in time
but
pain doesn't
for I am but a resounding aria of
temperamental mania,
encompassed by a turbulent existence
of lapses in judgement
concealed for the last time i realize
i am a perpetual woman of intense solitude
ebony silence has seized my soul and i
am forever bound to a life devoid of
hues that bring elation
o, how I crave alleviation
crying out to angels who said they would
save my soul
***********************************
12.11.19
Asking neither names, nor historical periods, Clio draws wide circles of popular masses around square lonelinesses. What's all this noise about? A rich man’s circumference is longer than a pauper’s one! Down with circumference! Fortunately, the nasturtium-clad fence is high enough. The noise is getting louder. Is it just me, or do they want again to take away and to split everything they have already taken and split once? Hydrocarbons, how sweet the smell! Oh, heavenly music of coins clinking! Perhaps, but I’ve chosen the planets motion instead of the people's movement. Violent Paris isn’t worth a mass: having fenced my paradise garden, I admire the swarthiness of girl’s skin and the whiteness of English play. Neither the close lightnings of revolution, nor the accusative case of proclamations, nor uprising, nor mutiny
nor bloody revolt
shall disturb your honey sleep
my dear nasturtiums
(after Théophile Gautier)
Carmen is sleek and slender, with a trace
of gypsy swarthiness around her eyes.
That sinister black hair engulfs her face.
There's something hellish in those slick brown thighs.
When women look at her, they call her plain,
but men surrender reason. Elle divirilise.
The Bishop of Toledo, now, is saying
a Mass for Carmen on stiff, painful knees.
About her amber neck a heavy twine
of thick, black hair coils downward, and it serves,
when she is in her alcove, nude, reclined,
as her voluptuous scarf, enhancing curves.
From that unblemished marble face explodes
the crimson-painted grin of a heartless winner.
behind one ear, her fleshy scarlet rose
has sucked the sap from souls of hopeless sinners.
With that bewitching shape, the morenita
outstrips with ease the pale society beauties.
Internal cruel geysers easily heat her
dark eyes, which force the fallen back to duty.
She has, within that vulgar, cheap allure
some acrid grains, some venomous sharp flecks
from Aphrodite's sea, from which The Whore
once squirmed, to castrate us all with sex.
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