Modern Romanticism

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

Rewrite – Novel – “A Pattern, In Love” – Romantic Work – Chapter I – 11/5/2019

November 5, 2019

She has controlled her beauty with evenness. Symmetry within every detail, and symmetry, especially among her smile. I have asked myself a question, if love would be the thing to hold her hand, or perhaps I have, as a flawed man, all the while.

I speak these words to resonate myself with guilt. It is an emotion without kindness, without reprieve, without the placement of forgiveness rarely given by another. I could weep. I could very well weep. Though, will a hand ever come to me? To pry my shoulder with even the firmest and boldest touch, would suffice. I ask questions, to state whether or not her beauty has also ever sufficed itself, not in terms of attraction, though to know if it has been warm enough. To know, if she has met comfort with her own attraction to it. To know, if she has met love with her own attraction to it.

Love blesses me, has made my heart famous, as though each string connected is one from a violin, and my heart is now the composer, with a thunderous command bellowing from each thump of its beat.

I am inward, and outward, with my eyes closed. I see the void in myself, and the vision of a woman, of whom I love, in reality.

He is inward, and he is outward, a man named Adrian, with barely a surname to be worth mentioning. Strings of his heart, the idlest of ones, are plucked, alike the petals of a tulip, making sensations aloud that reverberate among his form. Those idle strings, are plucked, are like petals, are have a scent, an aroma, much alike the strands to a woman’s hair. His surname, however, should be mentioned, likening itself to the reader’s satisfaction: it is Gautier.

He plays a piano before himself, drawing tunes upon the empty air, making smiles out of his own mouth at occasional moments. Love draws out of his own breath, in fewest words, “What is taking her so long to arrive?”

He is a Frenchman, with a face so rugged, and eyes without color for they are shielded by their lids.

He sees only darkness.

A piano before him, words upon the thoughts of love, and an unmentioned detail is of him swaying his head side to side, as though listening attentively to each thudded key against the wood.

Loneliness is to a man, as shocking as it is to a man, as bewildering as it is to a man, unlike how it is for a woman, which is a normal occurrence. A woman’s heart is a blank slate, before love dots it with the darkest of color. Darkest of brown, or deepest black, is poured upon a woman’s white heart, as her innocence is erased, and womanhood is embraced.

Ah, so man is to be lonely only for a singular reason, when loss weighs heavily upon his upper brows. Enough to close the eyes of this man, so that all he sees is the darkness, and the light that beams in through the open window before him.

He sees nothing, and we can describe nothing of his surroundings. How would it, dear reader, that we are able to describe what our character, Adrian, is unable to witness, for himself? Surely, it is impossible. It would not make sense to do it.

Love is a place of music, whether there be sighs in repetition, or faces marred by tears; we have love, we have its holy emotion in two places, as the sun or the rain. Sun, for joy. And the rain, for grief. Happiness and turmoil are each seeped into love’s domain, and as the rain weighs us, drenches us, as our clothes droop us, we are dried by the sun. We are loved by the sun, in our happiness, and we welcome its warmth. And, we are made miserable by the rain, whenever the rain moves us into depression.

All this relates to Adrian, by what has made his heart flow between joy and sorrow, when one beautiful woman enters into the chamber.


Short Story – Excerpt – “Museum of Muses” – Chapter II – Romantic Work

October 29, 2019

His smile is a pile of crude teeth, though this Charles Havier, our pauper to this tale, is viewing this woman with such admiration, that he sends forth that smile as though he were unlike himself; that is, as unlike a pauper, as unlike an emaciated man thought by many to simply be a drunk.

He watches her glide, upon two legs that act as if they are treading upon water. As if the path beneath her is making marks into it, by her gait, with hips that rock from side to side, adding charm to what Charles sees.

She is a beauty, as we have described of her. Tresses alike the bark of a tree, raining down from a scalp to her firm and bared shoulders. A simple gleam, in the form of a highlight is there from the warmth. From the sun, that creates its clashes against her porcelain skin, we see ivory emerge from it. Though, her calmness is like feathers upon a naked bird. Her calmness, great in this moment, though she shouldn’t be in any fear. It is merely a sort of calmness that is exuded by her temperament, that has been tempered by a comfortable upbringing.

Is she from the scene of Hollywood, out on some patrol away from the stage, dressed in something deemed to be “unusual attire” by those passersby who could recognize her face? Are there even those who’d notice this woman, should she be famous, by the bulbous shape and outline of her pinkish lips? Such people with an obsession with fame, when fame is an obsession, itself! Admiration is there for the portrait, though we describe her further for the sake of conjecture, and nothing more.

Erotic Poem – “A Cross for My Horrors” – Romance – 10/28/2019

October 28, 2019

You drop your idleness upon my spirit,
Your quietness upon my mouth,
Your beauty upon my flesh,
And your tongue runs like a whip against my throat,
Lost within
A cave that echoes sigh after grateful sigh,
Dear woman, with tresses made of ebony,
Add all stones, and all pleasure,
To this form cast from wood,
And yours made from marble.

I had bled upon rocks,
With my wrists untied, when they were bound,
To each end of a cross,
And I saw each road out of Eden.
I saw with eyes crazed and frozen,
Upon flesh and stone,
Marble and bone,
Your form and mine,
Our desires do shine.
Simply give what the many lacked.

I see,
With eyes upon the ends of a road of white,
Virginity broken upon combined scorn,
Breasts carved from ice,
And nipples born from flame,
Your eyes show places tall,
For homes built small.
Seed has been sent unto the womb’s wall,
And love has been hung as portraits on empty halls.

Your beauty is a careful design,
Crafted by other gods.
They had not the hands that stole a stare,
Away from men so unaware.

Erotic Poetry – “The Flavor of Love” – Romance – 10/28/2019

October 28, 2019

The taste upon your cold, although
Sweet lips,
Is as comforting as the bite I make
Upon your smooth shoulder,
When you unleash your sigh to this winter air.
I have tasted death,
As you have tasted life.

Born into your womb, a light within the darkness,
I have laid upon you,
Seed after sweetest seed,
Graceful, is your form
Of longest arms and ever-more
Longer legs;
And, among the place I nestle a new kiss,
Two breasts for both the wielding, and the taste.
Alike apples for a bite of both,
And their color is gold.

Bless your lifeless body with all I’ve sent, with shivers
To my form and yours,
The taste of love is both sweet and foul,
With scent that allures.
I flood a trail against your abdomen,
And you reach for a drop,
Two legs apart and between them
A dagger, once more,
Sinks into flesh for the tide to roar,
Beautiful woman, is there more to Heaven?

Erotic Poetry – “The Bough, the Bush, and the Berry” – Romance – 10/28/2019

October 28, 2019

In all I crave, I stand before shore and ship,
At the lash of some sailor and his whip.
At the command of God above, and pauper below,
I am here to make a home in the loneliness of a tide,
And there are memories in mind.
And, in my arms,
Where blood makes stains against my long-coat,
A woman pules and grieves newest after newest tear,
For an ending to what made her at a loss
For something I aimed to steal,
Though, had brought myself to take.

Virginity from womanhood, and I am not the thief in the night,
But, I am the man barren in his guilt.
There is blood upon a dagger, a wound in a woman,
And fewer than ever, places to perform my suicide.

There is this lonely ocean,
With tides against my ankles,
And, I want nothing more than to say farewell,
To all the world and its woes,
For I believe I’ve caused
Them all, and then some more.

My guilt is this ocean, and this ocean is my home,
Its tide, as well, my place to feel a belonging,
For distance, as well as certainty
To be calm, as well as afraid,
Of where to go, in my place among the waves.

Erotic Poetry – “An Entitled Bosom” – Romance – 10/26/2019

October 26, 2019

Face me,
Your stagnant aura, of many aromas,
Puts me beneath you, in a dying dedication,
For I’ve discovered it.
You deserve it,
You have earned it,
A caress upon a wild and entitled
Bosom that shows a gloss.
You were loved by many,
Until the one who will shower you,
With kiss upon kiss.

Star above,
Song below.
Allow me to bellow this melody
Upon your idle features,
As I describe what I’ve conquered:
“A lady of pain, who slept away to cry,
Has a herald of agony below herself,
A beauty with tresses like bark from a tree,
Shedding down to where I may see,
The entitled bosom that needs itself to be seen.”
Thrust aside those worn garments,
And offer me the breast for my wielding.

Go on,
Capture these kisses upon each orb of flesh,
Marriage has caught us in its net,
Its veil,
Its place of pride and wine,
Within a Holy Grail.
I kiss, and I kiss, again,
Two breasts,
An entitled bosom,
As your hands reach upward to remove the hair
From my eyes, stained from cries.
And I sigh, to bleed upon an ever-more
Golden ring and golden pride,
Bleeding for a face too adorned in lies.

Erotic Poetry – “The Laced Disgrace” – Romance – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

Sickness is a place in each other’s mouth,
And alike it all, you’ve shown a trace of a future,
Unclean upon the crawling filth,
Upon the knees of some horrid Monarch.
He’d shown no kindness,
It was as the books had wrote,
He believed in worships too unclear to see,
And made things simple in driest notes.
Whoredom is the world with entertainment
Combined with the illness
Of consumption.

I am in love with my Hell,
My place made in paradise,
My utopia of a mind,
Formed as great disgust to my kind.
I splurge as much as I urge
Others to eat from my plate.
I play a game of marvelous Christianity,
Upon the disuse of a man called ‘agony’.

There is desertion next to me,
And her voice is the blizzard upon the desert,
The coldness upon the dryness,
The death upon the infertile,
And her tears come down as meteors,
Though, fire would not create the lust
Needed for a rain of seeds,
To sprout green from the white, miserable sands.

Erotic Poetry – “The Spread of White” – Romance – 10/16/2019

October 16, 2019

A dance between two icons of slenderness,
Has me whisper words full of tenderness.

There is poetry in each fragment of gold,
Upon the crown to your ivory scalp.
I thwart the crudeness you’ve absorbed
Into yourself.
And, between two pillars of flame,
Two folds remain,
To hide a show of fireworks.

Of sparks and drops of wax,
From a bent and worn candle,
A sword embeds itself,
Into a bed
Of deepest flesh,
And drags out the contents of a furnace,
Of all remaining blood to the incinerator
That may turn flesh to ash.

I would not cut,
But simply sink,
The blade between bed and bone,
And drown in the pages of poetry.

In your eyes, I become lost
In darkness where flowers become cultivated
By scents and ecstatic sighs.

My annexation is the cultivation of a desert,
Where the spread of white,
Is the spread of newness upon a sheath of gold.
To raise up a tree,
From an abdomen soaked in beaded sweat,
To see your sparkling face,
Of the same way.

For I shall melt all of Antarctica,
To see the spread of green.

Collection – Erotic Poetry – “Between Moons and Heavenly Smiles” – 5 Poems – 9/27/2019

September 27, 2019

Poem #1

Thy Pleasing Fetish

Feel thy current calling,
Between the motioning legs,
Crawling upwards,
To see the sun and its eyes,
To hear the moon for its cries,

Love has been the blessing,
Though, lust has been the wave
Of kisses for our mouths.

I feel the smoothness, of fruit,
Of orbs of flesh,
As softest breasts,
Your fetish is a warmth,
A beauty to which I feel the need
To drown myself.

Lust is but a current,
A conflagration of incredible warmth,
An inferno that is but a spark
To begin this trail of debris,
That is cast over shoulders with a searing gleam,
As love controls our whims,
Lust will make music,
Through our repeated sighs.

Who said love ever failed?
Beside, and upon, and under
A bed,
With joyous eyes
To shoot towards stars,
That decorate a torso,
Full of secrets to a night,
As they are shared to me, in blissful melody.

Poem #2

Fill Me with your Denial

Your pleasure,
Is but a falling fortress,
Your face,
Screams the calls of enticement,
The calls of denial,
The scream, the want, and the yearning,
You have the face of change.

I am but two fingers within,
A pencil has outlined your womb,
A thorn has cut the flesh,
Measured as a fragment,
To what you owe,
To the empowered me,
Please me, the man of too many nights.

Death denies many,
While life adores the plenty.
Your servitude upon my cauldron,
That heats the water for your bath,
I have a message:
I state, that whether or not you face me,
You are the woman who will accept me.

Poem #3

Blow Kisses My Way

Kisses are sterile,
Without their fire,
Without lips that glisten,
Without cheeks that also gleam,
There is not the constant
Rush of any moment.
Blow those kisses,
In my direction,
In my way.
I yearn to catch them,
And pull strings upon your heart.

Beauty has its way
Of offering flesh.
From the womb of a woman,
Flesh is raised.
Flesh comes about,
In the thickening trail of anguish,
In all despairs to a life,

Blow your kiss,
Towards me,
Upon me,
So that I may taste it.

Your distance,
Is often the cause,
For my tears.
I have cried many a night,
To see you peacefully
Nestled to a blaze,
A blaze of love and glory.
A blaze of the fewest nights,
Needed to prove,
An offered love.

Kisses are meant to be few,
For love is not meant to be renewed.
For how could longing be there,
When love has already been shared?

Poem #4

A Feminine Seduction

Great marble, so close to the color of your flesh,
Peel off, I do, the art of modesty,
The clothing I have discovered to be sinfully placed,
Upon what makes you whole.

I view,
With eyes alike the artist,
Wielding his brush as a weapon,
As a dagger,
As a sword,
How your
beauty has come as seduction,
Placed upon the doom of humanity.

You starve the wonders from the world,
Through all you consume.
One finger like the bent and burning candle,
Touches my flesh to rend it scarring,
Touches my heart to make it roar,
With all fury and pain to my world.
And two eyes of yours,
Made alike the ocean, with tears alike a banquet
So that all may eat them.

Poem #5

All Pain Runs Deep

To the ocean, and to the ends of the Earth,
Subtlety is but a natural fixture,

To one perception of flatness,
Never the infinite,
But, the limitation of a sight,
As if beauty were never protected,
As if humans grace themselves over
With another’s blood.

Christ and sin,
The strange calls from the din.

The women and their desperation,
The fires from a Hell,
Are faster than those from Heaven.

They burn faster,
Over flesh.

A quickness, a temptation,
Christ called to the forsaker,
A woman had called to her son,
A Mother of sorrow,
A face made of ivory,
And tears descended,
Like angels removed from Heaven.

Erotica Poetry – “Demure Beauty” – Collection – Poem #2 – 9/16/2019

September 16, 2019

I find letters scrawled,
Upon your worthless back.
You have never been a gift for my liking,
A woman, broken,
Made for the coins upon a road.
You are longing for temptation.

Demure, you have become,
By the traces of blood on your eyes,
Beneath your eyes,
A storm comes hanging.
The tiredness from my fingers,
Knows to withdraw.

A lost bird,
Soon becomes tranquil,
For it has died.

It became the sorry thing,
To meet the meadow’s engrossment of flame,
Upon the night of deep bliss.

You were that sorry bird,
Of only one wing,
With eyes of coldness,
Though, you are demure,
With breasts shaped as glistening puddles,
And a thorn between your legs,
One that edges, upon height,
As those legs tremble in their heat.
They are as two pillars of flame,
And both are rotten.

Love leaves when Heaven departs,
And God saw Himself fit, to be lost,
Among the fragrances of womanhood,
As I did.

As I gave into the kiss you blew,
For my steaming recollection,
For my fiery furnace,
There was beauty all around,
So tortured,
Though, it was demure.