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.
“Where a man has his genitalia for annexation, it would be when he annexes the woman down south, at the southern tip of her, as the Earth and all of land, so that all of Antarctica melts. Conquer her heart, first, all of men, before the annexation; because, should a man do the latter before the former, her lust will be a blaze, will be absorbed by her, will be spread outward from her, to make an uncontrollable inferno that all will desire to be burned by.”
“There is great strength resonating through a woman, when she is continually deceived. Allow a woman to work, as offensive as that may sound, and she will be continually deceived, through what deception is ultimately defined as. Deception has the definition of ‘usage’, to pull a human away from a home, and maintain continual usage upon the subject, until they are worn thin. It would be the same as pulling a potential slave from their native homeland, and putting them to work under the command of a master. No one forgives the Femme Fatale, for a woman of this sort cannot ever be forgiven for doings; for that is because they continually attract and doom, based on previous experiences. A society of seduction is only ever introduced due to the female psychology that resonates itself around continual usage of the person. Lust, that is, is the place of deception, is the place of usage; to be placed upon the bed, and make whatever one wills of a body, is the essence of utility. Love holds, love embraces, and never lets go, whereas lust is wild and its flames are uncontrollable.
The words ‘until they are worn thin’ is when a woman, when being deceived, will be starved of any forgiveness. In love, a woman has limited forgiveness to offer. In lust, a woman turns forgiveness into allurement. That means, for whomever unlucky man comes across her path, he will feel the continual guilt of doing, making him continually weaker, under her rays of beauty. And, more-so, such a deceived and deceiving woman will be obsessed with appearance.”
“In relation to how men and women feel guilt, by men feeling guilt for action, and women feeling guilt for inaction, there is the mark of the subtle opportunist in manhood. The subtlety marks itself also as its obviousness. It is as much obvious, as it goes unnoticed, somewhat like the wind that brushes against our cheek, when we walk out of doors. It is also alike how we never concentrate on our breathing during when we are engaging in usual activity. Do we ever question how we are able to speak? Therefore, between the romantic relationships for men and women, there are, bordering on the emotion of guilt, the reasons for why either a man or a woman chooses to leave.
To speak of guilt, and also the opportunist, marks a man as choosing numbers, before he ever chooses a one. He has been the creator of the numerical, marking a woman as the factor for life’s multiplication. His seeds are infinite, and yet, only one ever reaches the end for a life to sprout. Oneness, reduces a man’s vision of numbers into a singular. From plural to singular, makes a man able to reduce his life down to simplicity. For a plural represents himself as commanding an army. Though, a singular represents him as a man who has found that oneness.
As for when a woman chooses to depart, it was only simply due to that loyalty lost from him, when he chooses to depart from oneness over to ambition, and the creation of numbers. Money and other possessions, were never the thing to ever make a woman happy. Beloved is she, when she is reminded of the first time, the singular time, when they had embraced. Guilt is soon placed on her bare shoulders, and a man must always remember the sight of a woman’s shoulders, because they are no longer caressed with the gently placed hand upon such a moment. They are, instead, held down by a cruel touch that weighs as much as the Earth.”
Where have graces taken thee, When you shielded before fate and misery? You play with the night, Like a bouquet of roses, Sniffed by children, and eaten by cats.
Believe me, in my woe, You are the doomed harlot, The failed woman of many curses. Among that god between your legs, There are eyes that cry a sorrow.
You glisten by day, To glisten by night. Both of body and complexion, Does this aura arise. And you make music through your sigh.
The sigh of pleasure, The sickening sin of Lust. You bled for God and his herd of Shepherds, Felt Hell crawl on your naked skin, And mistook it for Heaven.
These fields of ruin, Are of my design, Destined to bathe, Among the odorous wine, Of virgin blood and castrated swine.
Stretch your form, will you? To the ends of the cruel Earth, You’ll see a singing shape, The scrotum and the shaft, Was like a tower of gold, Now but only rotten, Was once a key to the Earth, Grim faces torn everywhere, Evil politicians and their false smiles.
You doomed harlot, What maketh yourself of ourselves, When we praise thee, and never the Lords, Who drop tears, as you drop both blood and sweat?
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.
Under tresses, dark as night, Have you failed in your endeavor, To lay your hand over a swollen branch? Beauty! Mark this shape for its texture, It has a way to come crawling, It has a way to come inside, To come within, and reach.
I lay falsehood upon falsehood, And drown in your rose, Your complexion, of merry vermilion. A face so angelic, That it steers about to face the moon, The love that angles itself into curves.
I describe your form for what it is: Two hips like two handles, From a kettle of tea. Two breasts like two pears, Ripe for my taste. Two legs like the show of marble pillars, Though, now mere plaster Because, you’ve lain Falsehood upon falsehood, Drunk upon desire.
I deal in this anguish, I yearn, beside you.
Come and love, And merely come. Make music through your sighs, As repetitious as they repeat, All the farewells, Forced upon high With the walls that extend, Towards the faceless moon.
Dashed with red lines, Above your feeble lips, Redness has clashed against the almighty Of porcelain chin and nectar saliva. It is the sort that drains, From a serpent tongue.
You obeyed a man, With whom you sought after denial, To whom you’ve danced a longing night, Many of them, with which you saw betterment, If for but a while. Am I cherished in your company?
There are dew droplets that run a tempest, From your gleaming orbs as eyes. A breast hangs freely from a collarbone, A kiss hangs so sweetly from two embedded nostrils. I am weary in my want, Though, so dreary in this contempt.
Face me, dear child, You, the woman to my form and emotion, The face you are beholding, Decked in exasperating smile, And ruby lips melting wide open, I fear for my coming touch. To crack open, Your smallest shell.
There is wine for a memory, And kisses, aplenty.
There are roses for an aroma, And great harmonies played vast.
In all we make, By the cruelest of neglect, There are shadows forming heavy on minds, On my own, The buried torment, Comes as earnest.
Think upon, if you dare, dear
reader, to the love that generates itself from a man, so that it runs itself
from East to West. From a beginning to an ending; and that ending, of which we
speak now is the most important aspect, is where loss is current. Loss is the
now, the moment, and the place where a man finds himself nestled with a noose,
and perhaps a singular strand of hair from his beloved, wherever she has fled.
“I am before her,” says a man, of truest intention, and never the slightest hint of doubt, “To give myself everything that I have never believed in to have an existence, in my swollen heart of misery.” For a man, of that truest intention, has nothing left to lose, when he has all to give.
Though, in description of that rock,
that stone, remaining before Joseph, seemingly with eyes of its own, bleeds a
faint shadow onto the gravel beneath it.
Soon, a tear drains from his reddening eye, and marks a new path over his left cheek. It is a desolate tear, one that screams of loneliness. It is a one that finds itself a wind that makes it move to the left of his face. It moves steadily, and then, grabbed by the wind, that tear flies into the wall of some unknown building.
Then after, a colossal hail of tears is swimming their little
paths down into his partially opened mouth. As sadness encases him in bold
ripeness, he finds family with his new choice, and that choice is a simple one:
to round himself, and begin to walk in the opposite direction, towards the
woman who he abandoned.
Your face, With idle tulips grown from lips so sweet, And eyes so resplendent against the moon’s gleam, I wish to know of your beauty. Of glassy complexion, and everything wanting, Of everything wanted, by me.
You have a heart that needs holding, For it deserves freedom. There are chains, Needing to be removed, A love I have vowed to embrace, With all my brutal might.
My beauty, With arms so bared against the cold wind, And a slender form against the warm flame, Of my desires and their fanned selves, Made to stoke, made to raise, Made to also freeze the world into contentment.
I vow to love, and love forever. Shall we take on the world, in force? I will take your hand in blessed marriage, I have commanded a train of this love, So that it may take us further, To a meadow where we’ll lay and kiss.
Beauty deserves a moment of adoration, And love deserves an eternity of intoxication.
There is a face that I occasionally come to kiss, even in the dark of night. When torment has been my medicine, from a bottle that I drink to sink pain beneath my chest, I think only of her.
I think only of a woman, who has blackest hair, and darkest eyes.
I think of my failings, my undoings, or any small inaction that I form into the guilt of a man committing murder. I am dramatic by my heart, and fallen by my mind. My mind thinks, and it ponders while it wanders, because guilt has been my necessity. I love with a powerful love. I crave the burn, the sensation that drives me to thrill.
She has embodied that.
The burn, that is, and her form is a chaotic form, of bruised flesh that I have been aiming to make wholeness; for I would offer pleasure, and more-so the love. Her face is what I have found, to be desirous for my many kisses. I have found all of love in her, in its greatest definition conceived by me. Oh, love! It is an emotion, alike a fire, a conflagration, to burn my sins so that it is all I witness.
She is the beauty, and the task to which I devote my time. She is the woman of sentiment, and no photographs would I burn.
For the thrill of love, I commit myself to madness, to sadness, and to gladness; and I adore each sensation, clung upon them like a man I am, with claws, like upon skin that would not tear.
I see her eyes swimming in tears. I am devoted and loyal. I do not worship, but remain at a distance to see the ocean that show whatever loneliness is left to purge. And I cross them, and throw the water aside.
I see tears, and I swipe them away. I see the moon folding its pallid hues over herself, and I collapse the moon. I see the sun offering a greater love than myself, and I destroy the sun. I want no sadness for herself, though for me, for I will grow terrible to thwart away the disease called “distraction”. No sadness, and no misery, for herself.