Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Novel – Chapter IV – “Signs of a Man in Love” – Romance – 9/17/2019

September 17, 2019

Hope is a well that springs eternally the warmth of possibility.

Though, for each individual possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever void has been created.

Beauty has a message:

Beauty asks for one of two things, “I must be protected,” or “I must be destroyed,” while the former is fulfillment, while the latter is mere temptation. A desecration of life, does a woman yearn to fulfill herself in this; and could she step upon a flower to feel fulfilled, or perhaps destroy the entire universe? Temptation is an infinite thing, and upon its path, the only thing that is represented is failure, the death of many things. As for each life, the only failure to conquer it, is the one that kills it.

We speak of all this, soon when Joseph enters his beloved’s abode, which to him, was his own previous abode.

And he finds his woman strangled by braided twine.

He finds what she remains as, the grace of tears, the notion granted from loss, and her hair! Her hair, such a latter detail from the previous fewest words, represent now the multitude of wires that engross the finality of humanity. To become the corpse, would be to become the machine. The puppet, to which we find it mattering to say should be controlled.

A lifeless thing, her named was Barbara, the love of Joseph, too stricken by his abandonment to edge herself further through life. Wires for hair, alike the machines that are beginning to conquer the industry of our setting in London.




All words now a part of a bruised puzzle becoming wholesome flesh, as Joseph kneels to the defeat of himself. He does not speak, though rather chooses to rub his face in the floor, below him.

His tears run as the dew that folds itself over leaves in the morning. Like the leaves that bend when the dew droplets make their travel to the pointed end, Joseph, as well, bends his form close to the floor, by the same maneuver. Angelic, it seems, that his torment has become, and more is guilt the persistence to reveal that torment; for that is because he is closer, himself, to dying, and relating himself to the hanged corpse, before him.

He feels a sense of shaping, as though his soul is calling him into the body, before him. The body that has a wind against its skin, so that it has begun to swing. It would not bleed, not even in description of that its blood has ceased to flow, though in that such a woman named Barbara would not show remorse.

She had done this deliberate act for proof, and only this, perhaps in hopes of a coming stranger, or even Joseph, to find her.

Every suicide is an act of proof.

Those who say to each of them determined to end all, the words that go by the ever-more deliberation of doubt, are received with words that say, “If only I had said otherwise.”

Would further love turn this tragedy mended? A failure that Joseph has engrossed himself upon, has allowed to show wound upon wound in himself; and now, he only shows kindness to the floor, because he kisses it. He wets it with his tears that blossom freely from his eyes. They would be like blood, were ever Joseph to hold pain as physical.

A wound of the heart, is always cured by love. It is a fixation, a focus, this emotion, this feeling, that is determined to heal. And yet, love may only heal the heart.


Introduction to a New Novel – “Title: My Waters for Her Fortress” – Romantic

May 26, 2019

Have we felt the urge to swim?

The both of us; in raging currents, have we forced ourselves out of line with a scenario? A dismay. A tragedy. A disorientating vision that has made promise after promise turn to failure. Why, my sweet Eveline, has all become disproportioned?

My pain runs in tides, in the hardest heartbeat that knocks against my chest cavity. I am in love, though I don’t know. I don’t know when the next torment shall begin.

A message to a cross, where I will become crucified; to die for the sins committed on my own, over the mistakes where you’ve played a part; I write this message so that it spells a certain word: Eveline. The word that digs a knife into my heart. I love you, and you have been loved, to the new moon and to its return to a darkness. Nothing else is mattering to this time, besides the extraordinary that shall come with us.

A petal I now place on this letter, this message, so that there is replaced upon it an aroma that reeks of sweetness. Alike to your breath, alike to your cheeks, alike to your skin, that shares a scent like an ocean breeze. I have become the one that will make you a crown, when my own is with thorns, and yours will be ivory and gold, and bluest sapphires and reddest rubies. Those who ever mock us, will meet death. Love has an arrow of abruptness, and I will pierce any who speak against our desires; to be one, when the world is apart.

“A Marvelous Waiting Game” – Romantic Poem

May 23, 2019

Of eye and iris, combined,
I combed the earth, to then find those pair,
Dipped in honeydew and nectar alike,
Stark against pallid skin and reddened cheeks,
As thy making were by God’s artisans.

Your eyes, and the cries you emit,
By the graces of angels,
By the disgrace of my fallen empire,
By the dismay to my withered pride,
You are still the only love.

A beauty with bleakness to tress,
And red to lips,
A beauty with eyes that fall in the idleness of waking,
A beauty with no equal, unmatched by makers of newness,
For the eyes that I behold are a waiting game.

I look upon them with a face so stern,
I look, with the entrancement,
The enticement, the amiable nature of my mind,
To be pleasant in sight of a one,
The nurtured one, the rose in the garden.

You have never been the disappointment,
And I never faulted you for any failure.

A beauty with eyes that wait, as I wait,
For a death that would make our love finally resting.

“The Dismay of thy Gleaming Back” – Poem

May 23, 2019

Upon a day, when the moon rose to stay
And look upon us with fervent fervor,
I saw behind that dress that covered thou,
A white back that gleamed beneath the silver.

A tempting look in your eye,
You had a back that gleamed beneath the silver,
With a coat of sheen that grew to bloom
In the radiance of an early afternoon.

The dress that covered thou,
Is of lace, embroidered in a streaming silk,
Each strand is weaved to perfection,
To shield a body for God.

Would you open your mouth,
To receive a tongue?
A tongue to lash your swollen cheeks?
You are marvelous when you would grieve.

You are as mighty as all beauty
When thwarted by sensuality.
It is because I am
The blessing of a simple fruit,
And the admirer of resplendence.

A beauty, that you are,
With a sheen to a back,
All white against the dress that is black,
And a face that shows rosy cheeks alack,
For thou has turned from me!

A back, a back, and a back,
Your face not ever known.

“A Wild, Wanting One” – Erotic Poem/Long Poem

May 23, 2019

How many marks were branded,
As oaths to a singular curse?
I was the livid, the toiling, and the strained.
Worked by day, and puled by night.
Diseased, shameful, and miserable.

You, as the woman, to my heart,
A heart shattered by time,
Stilled in time,
And motioned only by a heavy bosom,
One that is yours, made for sinking.

How lovely are thy breasts!
White as sourdough, and gleam in the sun!
Your feet are for caressing, and thy lips
Are there for the sweetest kiss.
A mockery of my mind, for my heart has leaped.

How marvelous are thy cheeks!
Swollen with the redness of tomatoes,
And also made for kisses,
To be placed on such soft flesh.
You ready yourself to speak to me of heaven.

As I dine on your body,
Twisted in limbs of ivory,
You say to me, “Why has thou forgotten
Of the wishes made before an altar,
For divinity?”

I looked up to see the rays of gold,
And bowed with neck entranced,
To see the Almighty, in how He flew so radiant,
From my side,
To where my fears crossed.

They crossed in the shallow earth,
Where I fell to savor a drop,
One solid and tapered finger, pointed by Christ,
To where I’d forgotten to bask,
Due to that my love was merely limbs to my appetite.

I say with heavy mind and distorted heart,
That, “I knew not what Christ envisioned,
When he sought solitude upon the cross.
Was is because of my loss?
Was it due to my own cross?”

She fell with a reddened neck,
To the soil of a country-land,
So much I took in a fragrance,
A breed of death,
That of her womanhood.

A failure to upkeep duty,
A misery when singing psalms and hymns,
A funeral for a departure,
That of a woman and her tide,
A wild, wanting one.

A beauty, and a savior,
I laid a corpse to be drawn
Over with sheets inlaid with embroidered stone,
Stone, rock, and debris.
A wild, wanting one.

“The Harlot’s Youth” – Poem

May 23, 2019

“Your amiability is sworn,” said the puling temptress,
And I had forgotten, the meaning of death.

I pulled a message, from her hand,
And read it, forthwith,
It read so neatly, in my hand,
Words of long-etched, verse,
Bleeding, with a hue, akin, to the ink color.

“Next to nothing, that you are,
A devilish crude vessel, of a man,
Made for simple wrath, and never for sanctimony,
A man of many faces, and never a smile.”

I tossed the message, aside,
And sought, for the openness,
Of a window,
And a pair, of white steeples,
Paired, as lascivious legs,
Dropping, from a woman’s groin.

She saw, with eyes so eager,
The eagerness, withdrawn, from mine pair,
Mine pair, of blues, to her irises, of green,
We had met, like ocean, to forestry,
A message of want, to my withered hopes,
In how I knew, not what life, represented.

Here I came to war, upon her flesh,
Her, open flesh,
Pinks and purples, clashing, as one,
Sick by disdain, with drops, of lust,
A harlot’s youth, bespoke, with her grin,
A word to my eyes, drowned not, by Neptune,
But, by Bacchus,
For wine stunk, upon her cherry lips.

“You are as this world, my land, my place.
A woman as me, so forgotten, and shamed,
Held down, to lost hopes, and travails,
You are needed, elsewhere,
Kept from youth, to be among, the strays.”

And I melted upon her!

I melted, to say that the world, of her’s, was lost,
Because, I met a woman, proud and empty,
Loathing, was her tempt,
And that disdain, was her salvation.

Romantic Prose – “The Rays of the Sun”

May 20, 2019

My beloved, have you ever seen the rays of the sun, and how each had lashed your pallid cheeks? I felt rain upon the day of our commitment. Had you felt the maneuvers in those rays? Upon the day when rings lay frozen on our fingers, you seemed content.

Golden radiance melted an ecstasy on your rosy flesh, and you were made beautiful. You were made to cling to precious things, solid enough for form. And in my way, I sought for newness to behold.

Death had overcome my withered face, and oh, your beauty; it was the current of white that drew a streak of life on my heart. I fall down into sheets made in the irises and pupils that are your eyes. Eyes once felt for their doom, and now, made into tulips. Into forestry, and into vast meadows, I make mellow sounds with my tongue. I speak to birds, and I see you. I speak to God, and I see my own wish.

To be upon the day where an idol forms, made for soaking beneath dread and dead. Your beauty and your hollow earth, both love and death conjoined, and I pay no compliment to your purpose.

Oh, love! Wherever had the song fled?

Wherever had the music turned, when sheets with notes were pulled by the wind?

I was the muse to a frigid soul, and the call to death’s mournful toll.

“Upon thy Curling Hip” – Poem

May 18, 2019

I grew upon, thy curling hip,
With a lash, to a petulant visage,
And thou, drew me near,
To hear the sighs, and the fears,
And the never ending, quake,
Of thy, roaring heart.

A vein, and a dynasty,
A cruel blight, and a fantasy,
A death, and an illusion,
Was all it took, to flee,
For thou to flee, from my side,
So that thou, would find safety.

I found among, your puling face,
Two cheeks of butter, and lips of wine,
Two ears of honey, and eyes of lime.
I found also among, your gracious form,
Two hips that curled, like teakettle handles,
And two legs, like steeples of white.

I found to your face, of beauty,
The newest form, of tragedy,
When you fled, to see the world’s end,
And saw, my creation imagined.
You saw, with open eyes,
The deaths, that were many.

I made the world as grand, as thy temples, and hips,
And thy hips, had curved, just as broad, as that world.

Excerpt from a Novel – The Devorah of Reims – “Oh, Woman! The Beautiful”

May 16, 2019

These remnants to her beauty are there for consumption by a back of white. A back that shows gleam for gleam in the haze of a heated day, and her eyes! Her eyes show the sparkle of youth, governed over by nature’s best artisans; for they have sculpted in her form the ivory textures of folds. Her form, indeed, has become full by the many meals and neglected fasting.

One should be in love with her, were they not led to their doom. A man named Antoine, with a heart of poetry; and a man named Bertrand, with a mind of theory. Who is it to say where there will be the unveiling beneath wreaths above brows, and petals at an altar?

Is there at all, love to name her place? Among a world where green and blues collide, and life and death keep themselves as distant lovers, is there love for her?

Love is the music of any yearning soul.

When one desires it, though does not openly seek it, love seeks them. Love is the hunter, and sometimes the huntress. A hunter is allured, while the huntress allures. Is that not what beauty does, to the man, in the latter? An allurement, for the alluring woman, near to a ripened age of eighteen, is Devorah. A woman of her hometown, named Reims, and a beauty that is still in the development; her beauty is hunted, because it allures.

To the hunter and his desires, there is only the many beads of sweat for consumption. There are only the many notes to play on a harp atop a woman’s heart.

What is love, if not the rarity? It is always, and is meant to be, the rarity. No matter the denial, it remains the same, as a rarity; and though the yearnings may increase, the rarity only becomes more apparent. Though, it was still a rarity, and has always been a rarity.

Love is as rare as there are stars being engulfed by darkness.

They shine yet, the brightest, though men may find the coldness as more comforting than the warmth, in remembrance to a mother. A woman will sear, to sear a warmth straight from her heart, like a tendril of flame. A token, or a gesture, that is the music to her yearning. A blessed thing, that is she, a woman, with lovely eyes that could be either the darkest shade of brown or the brightest hue of blue.

What is a man if not in love with death?

What is a woman if not in love with life?