Modern Romanticism

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

Novel – Chapter V – “To Pull Close a Corpse” – Romance – Excerpt from “Signs of a Man in Love” – 10/9/2019

October 9, 2019

He steps around his guilt, like iron coats the soles of his feet, and motions to a place before his departed beauty. A step more and he nestles a kiss upon her brow, swearing to himself that he could still hear her words. They were, before she hung herself, perhaps the words of an apology. Words unheard, meant to be heard by Joseph, this man who once loved the purest form of beauty. That was when he allowed himself to launch directly into her, to pull free the chains that seemed to shackle what was once not allowed to move.

For a woman’s memories are as dear to her, as they are sometimes tragic and sometimes comedic. Why is a man attracted to her smile? That is because the smile is there in the realm of deception. He sees what challenges him, being the uncertainties that have created every mistake attuned with his past. Those challenges spark him to lead a woman into the future, with only ever the confidence necessary to see that forwardness, logic, and directness. And, when he looks over his own shoulder, he should see only one thing: herself, the beauty that he won’t ever forget.

A deception challenges a man, because he cannot look forward and backwards at the same time. A kiss was all Joseph needed, pressed against her brow, to believe in her mind, her thoughts, her own concealments, and whatever else she had not ever allowed to open from herself. Does a man desire discovery, as a philosopher, or does a man discover desire, as a man?

He says to a closed and limp form, “There was never anything else for my past, besides you, since you have died, and I still live. What is my beating heart, if it simply beats without love? What is next in line for my future, if I am someone who sees such a heartbeat, as unnecessary to beat? Each heartbeat is like a step taken, and I am not ever in the present. I am trapped somewhere on a border, on the line itself, and closed in a grand world of fear.”

A kiss to the brow had made him form a tear. Tears are infinite when the eyes have seen something dreaded, because when the eyes have noticed, neither the memories nor the tears, ever cease.


Poem – “A Face, and a Hollow Form” – Romance

August 1, 2019

My sweet, kiss my bitter lips.
My love, how shall we dine on my guilt?

My beauty, with everything sweet to see,
My bitterness, is yet exquisite.

Under moon and star,
Under faces apart,
In love and lust in fire,
Far, we walk, under the endless fog,
To find a memory that was once pleasant.
Dream with me, dear woman.

Your black hair comes in long strands,
Down to where it reaches your toes.
Your lashes, your eyes, and your fingers,
All have curves to see, alike the earth,
And its curvature.
See me as former, never as latter.

Rawest pain and purest shame,
Has encompassed me in highest notes.
There is memory in my mind,
Tears in my eyes,
Each one, dropping upon soil at my feet,
Feel this with me, dear woman.

Is there Hell to separate us?
Is there Heaven to unite us?

Is there family to be made,
When we die tonight on the frozen rocks?

Excerpt from “The Roth Overlook” – Blog Author’s Novel – “The Taking of Purity”

July 22, 2019

Her hands tremble as she stumbles over a flurry of inquiries, “Was our touch worthy? Was what I offered enough to relieve you and provide the elixir you were seeking, or was it merely fodder for another one of your papers? Am I the inspiration for your work, like a muse is to an artist, or am I truly your beloved? What am I to you?”

Evidently, these are questions that breathe loathing upon Bastian, so he somewhat recoils from its devastative emanation. He looks at her, attempting to understand the many fractures of her soul and their alignment with each other, as if to witness the vividness of her torment in its entirety.

She has been the onlooker of his misery! She has also been the subject of his studies. In being his subject, she has encompassed the innocence of a young girl, and that innocence has transformed into something far more hideous. Ignorance. A truth that is not often voiced. Ignorance in such a case is not ever innocence. As innocence as a form of being safe is always denial to the dangers around the endangered. Ignorance is replaced by knowledge, as Anita had offered herself up to Bastian’s altar, as a virgin.

Anita may as well have been raped.

Encouraged, but also forced to sacrifice her purity for the sake of what she thought to be true love. A wholehearted intent, but the penetration that was involved was likened to being knifed by a dagger. Blood was involved. An object of hardness was involved. A knife of steel. A knife of rubber. Only the former has the intended effect.

She was the demon for his studies, the little playmate for the paper, written with a pen that was akin to the god between his legs. White paper like the purity that is now erased, and the colors that are now drawn on Anita’s countenance are no longer childish.

What had been more important to Bastian, in what he wished to conquer. It is a confusion that emanates the fumes of madness. A sinister notion of what makes soldiers become longing for the bed at home.

Poem – “I, as the Husband to Misery” – Romance

July 13, 2019

I crawl and dwell,
Where faces embrace my Hell.
Where love is most potent,
Is where my misery is frenzied.

There are demons in this place,
This wasteland of remembrance.
This place so small,
I wish it would grow tall.

I am a husband to misery.
It is because of how late the fallen evening
Has begun.
Roses sprout along the sides of walkways.
Am I in love with them?
They do not move with the wind.

I am not a husband to any eternity.
One that I’d fathom, to be eternal, as long
As the world grows sideways.
It extends as vast as my lonely heart.
Is all the world two-dimensional?
As flat as people themselves?

We seem to live,
In a world that’s lost touch with the three,
To make a family.
I am a husband to cruelty.

A wickedness I’ve seen so very vividly,
It has coursed itself over me,
It has run over my face,
As endless tears.

Poem – “Guarantee me Death” – Suicide

July 11, 2019

Pain, I have endured,
And pain, I never silenced.
Pain has always been company,
My neighbor, my friend.

Pain has always flowed,
Behind me,
To show me,
The sands of a thirsty shore.

The disease called pain,
Has been my cure,
Has been my reminder,
To who I am, the miserable one.

Fate has always controlled me,
Made me one with a sadness,
Fate made me loathe,
As hate made me roam.

My body is a pile,
Atop another pile.
My eyes seem to sunder,
The world into oblivion.

My fortune has increased,
But my denial has increased.
My death will prove myself,
The coward, who betrayed pain.

Poem – “My Face is White as Death” – Grief

July 11, 2019

As you stand when I lay
And die over me.
Tresses so bleak and heavy,
As the newborn moon,
As tears rain from a face,
To see my face barren and white.

As white as death,
As crude as this soil.
I am wrapped in a box,
For your weeping.

I was in pain,
And now, I see your pain.
Tears fall like the universe,
Should it ever collapse.

Oh, love! Deign yourself not to cry,
Over my ending.
It is torment that you endure,
Is it not?
My love, with so many tears that drop,
Become selfish for once, and step back.

Your empathy is so high,
And I am so still.
Cold and dead,
In soil, I call a bed.
Death has not been kind to you,
Though, has been kind to me.

I feel no pain,
No sorrow, but I am the witness,
To how you weep,
To how you seep,
Those tears, from between your fingers.

I am the soil,
To which you drop your rain.
The death,
To which you let fall your pain,
Upon me, the dead man,
Who has left you, the deadened woman.

Poem – “Depression… the Crudeness” – Personal Poem

July 11, 2019

As a man,
The night speaks harder than day.
As a woman,
I might falter to see the mirror,
For fear of seeing what asks to quicken;
And I am in pain for it all.

I feel tears,
More than I allow them to run.
I breathe pain,
More than I feel it.

I sing the song of sadness and heartache,
Even more than the world can empathize.
I feel disappointment greater than madness,
In my desperation, there is greater longing
For a touch, for a word, for a something,
To my shoulder, shoulder, and shoulder.

I find pain to dampen my distress,
Roses are comforting for their thorns,
Bruises are lovely for their color,
And death is much for the painting
Due to its very stillness.

Love has made herself a woman,
And she says to me that nothing is right
Where we live, or where we scream.
To the clouds, to the moon,
And never the sun.

Epic Poem – “Long Beloved Beauty in Life” – Part Two – Romance – 7/10/2019

July 10, 2019

Between all stilled forms,
Where tension summons up,
The most felled-upon,
Of sinners.
There is you.
There is you for the statues
That seem to weep.

They shield their eyes,
Unlike you,
Because you only stare,
At their discarded and frozen bodies.

You were loved,
Like the tragedy, made to be,
Made to be the most hellish curse,
Of this newly-won marriage,
And a conquered woman you’ve become,
Like the land that was never touched.

No waves crash the shores,
Upon your cursed form.
No quakes fracture the earth,
Nor the soil, when the birds sing out.

You have a face,
A face that is quick,
To be slow;
By the tears, by the falling rain,
That sinks out from aching eyes,
And from a sickened mind.

My quill seems to dance on these pages,
Painted with white, and they seem to pule,
Over you, and over your death,
You lay in a coffin,
Upright, and stink to the Heavens,
For no one has buried you.

Go love another,
As you have loved me.
Go despise another,
When you could do no other.
Go find another,
To make your room a place of fate.

Go eat the fruit,
That has been soiled by us.
We’ll eat the fruit, dotted with sadism,
And regret; by beauty and by blood.

I saw you,
Among the rotten stones,
Covered by moss,
And stained by soot,
That you are still smiling,
Beneath the horrid and wilting leaves.

Of Autumn, and its fall,
Of Spring, and its newness,
Of Winter, and its white,
Of Summer, and its sun.

I was in love?
Or, was I backed by love?
To the wall, or beyond a gorge,
To the end, where there are collected tears.

Poem – “Beloved, Unclothe Yourself” – 7/1/2019

July 1, 2019

I bathe myself in your splendor,
And stoop myself under the light of your smile,
I savor the breath that comes off as sweet,
And drink deeply from all victims of mine.

I am, and will always be, my own enemy.
I am tremendous, in how I own myself,
But I am a pitiful beast, with no mark.
I place myself into a nothingness, I call home.

There you are, with a face, unlike mine,
Your breasts, made of silver;
Your eyes, made from emerald.
Your kindness, is where I soothe myself.

Away from the bottle, away from the chair,
Nothing to drink, nothing to throw.
Your face sweeps me from the den of my design,
Where there is nothing but pain so sublime.

I have bones showing, and death’s stare at my door,
Until I see your prettiness, awakening,
And I am filled, with the uniqueness,
Of a woman named as her, so whole in form.

I feel misery as easily as I speak,
I feel death as easily as I breathe,
But when I breathe your name,
I am showered with relief.

Poem – “Feed me Wine, Dear One” – Romance/Erotic

June 27, 2019

Your shadowy dew,
That drops upon the folds to your dress,
I would dare a hand,
To tear that cloth, so that thy breasts fall free.
And consume thy bosom with so much glee.

Destiny holds a cruel fortune,
To our faces in a lock,
Mesmerizing are you, when full in form,
Beauty becomes wickedness, however,
When love is stripped away.

I take it away,
The cloth, I take away.
And then I stoop to drink,
From thy breast, from as much ivory
As I can consume.

A face so handsome, as mine,
To an embrace, of arms, entwined.
Your eyes are the cinnabar to tears I want for a meal,
And your tresses curl backwards to where they feel
A neck so solid and still soft for a bite.

Oh, as I am the beast,
To an angel so sweet.
Destiny beckons her elongated and tapered fingers,
To a mind, that is mine, where madness truly lingers.
I hold two breasts like slabs of granite.

Jagged and torn, my love is born,
A face so ripe as the next, with beauty hexed,
Where is my next feeding ground?
The nourishment to my lips,
Will be taken with hands that never slip.