Modern Romanticism

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

Flash Story – “A Woman Praised by Beauty and Steel” – Romance

August 16, 2019
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A woman’s heart is to me, the cherished stone. I walk from where I sat, to her face, and bury only myself in her tears. They come out from dark eyes as sweet to taste, for she is happy!

Happiness! So alien was the word, whenever I’d writhe in a torment back in my home. I’d spent the summer nights, in the heat, while a heart beat for the torment of an addiction. A substance, or so it was named, and I blew kisses in the direction of that pain, because I knew it was enhanced by love.

She bares her beauty resplendently. This woman of mine bares herself with a heart held outward, and I make myself famous in her touch. I feel the entire world look upon us, with so much envy. They can never know love. No; not them; certainly not the world I know to be dipped in selfishness and a desire for the self.

Our hands embrace; indeed, we have embraced. We have kissed, and we have embraced. We will love; yes, we will love. We will kiss, again, and we will find the moon to be radiant and the sun to be hot.

Above her brow is a strand of hair that I blow away from sight. I see an eyebrow that I, as well, offer a kiss. And I kiss it, and kiss it evenly in distance from her twinkling eye. So much love is in my heart, and my pain has been extinguished from its dancing and ephemeral flame. It was my life, that pain, and I have waved it a farewell.

My beauty, let us dance under stars and under the awing faces. We are the world made perfect. We are the moment made without distance. We are the ones for the other. We are beloved, and musical, and enchanted.

Poem – “Tena, Tena, offer Me your Lips” – Romance/Personal Poem

August 14, 2019
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Find me where wine surrounds,
An airport and its buzzing engines.
Find me, for me to nestle myself in your heart,
Find faces to feel their praise.
I will love until eternity is torn apart,
We will love until paradise is what surrounds,

With violet scents,
And beauty’s dose of awe.

Safety is where I will find your touch,
Your lips is where I will land my own
.
At an airport, where landings are general,
And your hair, I will run a hand
Through, like the running waves that guide
A man through the shapes of his own mind.

Love is the feeling to our universe,
Transferred in between time.

I want your lips, like the redness attached
To a petal from a rose;
Or like the blush just above your smile,

That has raised your rosy cheeks.

You’ll be my cure, will you not?
My pain shall fly away from this chest of mine,

As we embrace, and see that universe in eyes.
You will be my cure, and no one else
Shall take your place at my side.

Beautiful woman, holy and true,
I wield your hands like candles,
And take to the world no more disgrace.

Words of Wisdom – “Distinguish Love from Lust – Pt. 1” – 7/28/2019

July 28, 2019
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“How does one distinguish love from lust, other than the use that is placed upon the soul? The loved human, versus the used human, or the lusted human. In an age of Mass Production, there we see the ice caps melting, due to what the ‘South’ represents of a woman. Of a woman, being land, being Earth, her ‘South’ is her loins. Should that be heated, upon the time when a man annexes that territory, and tears a ‘pole’ through it, placing his name and his mark upon her ground, then all of Antarctica melts. This is lust. Mass Production has only aided this factor of usage, by seeing the ‘usable tools’, such as women among the workforce, and you create ‘territory upon territory’, or rather, the skyscraper. You create floor upon floor, and surface upon surface, to walk and to occupy. Away from this, you’ll find love to be the solitary emotion, kept to modesty and to the protection that would isolate one from the world, in the way where one knows one and one create a one; for it won’t be the skyscraper, where one and one create a two, plus an extra, plus an extra. For that would be the same as favoritism.”

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

July 22, 2019
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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 – “The Rain from Your Eyes” – Romance

July 21, 2019
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Let fall what water will drop to taste,
The shadow from a woman’s edges
To blue eyes within a puddle of ivory.
I feel from them, the ripples of despair,
The love we behold, is a pain of memory,
Love has been bridged,
Over cherished hills of cherry tops.
Above a breast and a nipple,
And two lips that aim to kiss,
The temple of me, a man with much remorse.

Oh, my beauty, how you’ve grown
Your heart to meet the risings of this garden,
The detail of veins,
The intricacy in their weaving,
I feel their coming upon us.
As the many deceptions you’ve been enticed
By, to make another world.

And to the world you’ve created,
One of lust,
It is one of death, by my judgement.

Deny me no longer,
The one who aims,
To tear free that heart, and to pull loose,
Each vein,
Apart, so that blood flows free,
Each feeble pulsation, is a sordid one.

Death has made you fowl,
Enough for murder to be my art.
Love has become our fate,
Though, to what we make of blood,
With its many hues and shades,
Guarantee us to be opposites,
A hue and a shade.
Won’t we love, among so many birds?

Among so many voyeurs,
Won’t we love?

Flash Story – “The Rise of Eroticism” – Erotica

July 18, 2019
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There is much to adore of a form so raw with flesh. She shows bravery by walking to a place where she may admire her form.

As I peer through this window to see her, I may watch the breasts move upwards, as she steers such a form. I may see her cheeks with redness attached, and a chin where sweat has loomed to it. Alike to a cliff where a waterfall would drain away its contents into a gorge, this is it. She does not falter. No; and she cannot falter.

I am in love with mere beauty?

Although, I see my own reflection as a deposit of soil against this filthy frame, and a window becomes a mirror. At once, what I notice is beheld before me as a face of hideousness!

A man of an atrocious appearance. So much befuddled with the wetness from grime, from endless hours in vain toil. What would I achieve in that virtuous undertaking of a task, any task, to suit a moment’s reprieve? A moment in tired rest? Underneath sheets that are made from satin or linen, from a hotel with such fabric not belonging to me?

But, I am here to now see a woman in admiration to an astonishing figure, am I not? I am not here to berate myself. I am only here to see that which strikes out upon my face as a woman of no scolding to what she notices.

Two breasts like two pears, evenly displaced from the other, and perky enough to create that tip, alike to the pear’s shape. Of famous eyes that glimmer among the room’s arid temperature, and arms that do the same. Of those same eyes that are buried in the deepest shade of brown. And those same arms, that sway widely after she’s expressed admiration before this mirror in her room.

Oh, how I wish I could be that mirror!

How I wish I could understand that mirror, as well, and how it came to be in that corner, of where it stands.

Beautiful as she may be, she is only a figure, and I as well, see my face, once again; as it stares back at me, I can feel such a sting. A loathing, a pressing, and a great hatred that steams from somewhere fowl.

I know it.

In admiration of a figure, I admire the slave. The form. The worker. I would admire them, and still think highly of their efforts.

Who had sculpted her, I now ask?

Who had made the curves, that relate so much to the Earth, and its same curvature? Who has made the eyes with so much color alike the deepest shade of the bark upon an oak, or the deadened Autumn leaves?

Had I mentioned her hair, where female vices spring truest?

To make it alike to baldness would be to spread contempt upon both the beauty and travesty of a heart.

Had I mentioned the greatest detail, being the button to her abdomen, alike to the disused outlet in the wall of the Victorian home; or especially alike to either of this woman’s ears, that hearken to the neighboring parties, ones that are creating tunes upon gramophones?

For I say this is important, because in viewing it, I see of this woman, the vastest of sympathy. To breed. To offer. To allow.

And I am merely an object, disowned.

Poem – “The Face of Inspiration” – Romance

July 18, 2019
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For what I behold,
A Face of Inspiration,

Gained from who I love,
And all I love,
Being she,
And her heart, made of gold.

Behold, before thee,
Beautiful woman,

Who belongs to me.
There is much weeping upon my face,
My eyes once showed tragedy,
And now they behold the highest joy.

Deny nothing,
We’ve become the everything.
Your face is there for my quill,
And the paper beneath the hands.
Drown your eyes in this face,
And make us both expressive.

Our marriage shall become
The unity of unity.
All graces shall imagine,
The destiny we’ve long embraced.
I’ll not fathom any tragedy,
Nothing, for we’ll not be apart.

Words of Wisdom – “Respect, as Occasionally the Replacement for Love” – 7/14/2019

July 14, 2019
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“Love is automatic and gifted, whereas respect is earned and disposable. The respected are not so easily loved. To desire respect is not so much to desire a risk of the life, the unguarded life, and the unguarded heart. We, as stubborn humans, who desire respect, will guard all our weaknesses. Through respect, we place upon our faces a mask, where we believe nothing can penetrate it. It is just so, from the man to the woman, and her body is too much the beauty to penetrate in the figurative sense, that the strongest man will find his way to her heart. For if it is his heart that controls him, and not his mind, he’ll find himself tangled in her veins. Respect oftentimes is the replacement for love, because with people who desire the former, the latter becomes our weakness, and there is no way we wish to allow our guards to drop. Especially through love, when our shields are willingly dropped. From the knight to his beloved maiden, he’ll submit with knee to the floor, before his most wanted devotion.”

Poem – “Honey is Strange” – Erotica

July 14, 2019
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Two flowers did bloom,
Upwards, they did bloom.
And created a nest!
Indeed, created a nest.
A nest of strands, velvet and black;
And those two flowers,
They’re two legs, made for plucking,
As honey drains between them.

Feeble woman of great talent,
Make this bed under the moon,
Or under the sun,
For it does not matter.
I see thee, with a face so smooth and watchful,
Engrossing all there is to see,
Of you, in a mirror of hardest glass,
Though, of two legs, there is nothing better.

There is, of two legs, the aroma of a field,
The meadows of Heaven, where both of us
Walk among them, breathing the Heavenly
Scents of the strands,
You breathe it, and I breathe it.
I face it, and lay my head against it.

Lay down thy blessed body,
Upon the quilted garb,
When you’ve undressed yourself.
Show thyself to the world,
Your idleness is a thirst forthcoming,
Unto the thickened winds.

Beauty makes us both tattered,
As tears rain to drain,
And honey is so strange.
Under the shadow of virginity,
Blessed honey, with age never a factor,
For its hued resplendence.

I take thee into a cradle of birch,
Form thee a blanket made from those strands,
And cover a world with them, too,
I fall with your world, as elegantly as you do,
Love and lust is here for comfort,
Scents as one, timely and done.

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