Passion – Modern Romanticism

Flash Fiction – “A Crashing Spark” – 450 words – 2/13/2022

She undresses herself to the perpetuating tune. The offset of the offbeats, running ripples in soundwaves through heatwaves. There is an aridness to the room she stands in. Her clothes fall like landslides from her velvet flesh, though were loose to begin with.

A pair of eyes, glancing to riveting nudity. A man sees a moment for a viper, to be the fangs buried in the vulnerability. The trust she expects is amiable and admirable. Her surroundings are whitewashed and vapid, while drawn to the expert’s stroke of a brush along to create, for a viewer’s sake, painful streams of portraiture and vacant urns. Her own eyes, her look of sadness; there is a weight in her from an emptied safe. It yet holds weight, even while her screams will come to soar a perfused form.

Gliding forth as the freed, encaged bird in a pair of arms that wrap as both bandages and curtains. She is freed – thrown; she is drowned – burned. Pierced. The heart before the flesh. Her eyes close to look up. In darkness and in pleasure, while feathers from broken or clipped wings are behind a divided mind.

He washes himself in her skin. She conceals and connects her skin to sin, whispering what her thoughts escape. Out of a mouth, the pauses come, more than the words. The waiting game; the fading of sun in the heart to be permanent with the moon. Waiting for the minute to perish in the crevices, the scars. Her highs are the same as the lows. His face finds her deep in sensation. His view is blinded in the bond. Hand on her neck. Eyes down her throat. What a view in seeing what is, once again, all over with the dying light of an exhausted candle, becoming raw in its undisguised wish. That is, to be the martyr, the whore; he sees her more in space than in grace.

High heels are wheels. Fingers exist to linger, to hush the lips and cancel the breath. She turns to burn against someone else’s scar, where in hoping to find vague renewal in beautiful connection, she ends the idea in a bed of warm softness and cold metal.

Walking in her eyes, speaking more than her mouth, will entertain us for a feast. We could feed or we could speak, finding the tears that descend upon us to hit the plate as tidal waves. Will we notice what splashes us? It is different in two directions. One of lies, the other of truth.

What she likes is not what she loves.

Quote – “A Man, and Sex” – 8/29/2020

“A man is gifting, when he forsakes what he feels, for the feelings of a woman. A man is vain, when he forsakes what a woman will feel, for the sake of what he can attain.
If, in bed, a man cannot gift to a woman her pleasure, in sole focus on her feelings, then he is not himself.
If pleasure should matter to the man, over the woman’s own, then he is not himself.”
– Modern Romanticism

Excerpt – Erotica – “To not Sink a Friend” – Romance Novel – 8/11/2020

She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look.

She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her sight, and sorrowful to her soul. As misery creates the greater, darkened clouds, it becomes a short-term relief when passion can overrule it. A touch between the legs has made her face aglow, while her eyes are glinted like the prettied, tempered steel. Like two fastened orbs of metal, encrusted into her skull, the irises show off the only color, being like we have said, a stark green.

As she leans closer, the soon sight of herself to the vanity she exposes from her skin, the life in her form, the energy in her slight quivers, harbors a great attention to detail.

Little droplets racing from beneath her arms, driving a scent to the unfurling winds bleeding in from an ajar window, would entice even the smallest pebble, were that to hold life. Her hair, a great wind for a flurry, heaving in all direction in its disordered nature. It, too, holds a fragrance, clinging in shampoo to the utmost of its alignment. She is, inarguably, tempestuous, just as she is radiant, both in the literal and figurative depiction. Her back, arched, as her bottom throws itself upward, revealing pink for pink, gleam for gleam, and scent for scent. A defeatist nature would make anyone mad, were they to not dabble in the admiration of her. She is now like a plucked lily from a bed of algae upon a pond.

Still, great weavings of thread somewhat cloak her, about the waist, and about her legs. Her bottom, plump. Her breasts, full. Her eyes, aglow. Her hair, graced by a silken texture within each strand, and being luscious by every highlight. Modesty only ever cloaks the startling form, enough to have the yearning to tear it away.

Novel Excerpt – “To not Sink a Friend” – Volume One/Chapter VI – Erotic Scene – 6/26/2020

He carries her. She is guided under his palms, meant for this. For the rushing blood, the skin to be agleam under the brightening moon in the midnight hour. He has startled her, in his wrapping arms about her feebly thin waist. He watches. Her notices the whistling tension from her mouth, and he washes her faint groans away with another kiss.

Like love never held passion, before. Like a form never was beaded by the perspiration of a certain tide, as the current let loose by the storm. Here, all the pieces of a broken heart become arranged. Here, all the disorder becomes ordered. Here all the confusion becomes fusion, becomes connection, becomes the colors that consist of the rainbow to never fade. Over her blushing face, his sun is brighter than the moon we’ve described to share a likeness to this heat.

Leave slender times to tender times, lovers of yore. Candles lit, and wax drips like tears that roll down porcelain cheeks. Slender like the tapers, wielding the smallest flame, like they were upon the ends of Lisa’s fingers. She caresses him, sends him this flame that signals sparks to the nighttime hues, for all of her transparent complexion.

Within his grasp, she has entertained multiple sighs. Out on the streets of Madrid, they rush. They find their music, as well, heard in the ears of fewest paupers to graze the sides of rustic buildings.

They are creating the smoke, realizing themselves the draft, remembering each other the folding passion, of limbs that twist for another limb, of faces that contort for its twin. He hears her. He spies her bliss, finding itself in her delicate gaze, curled upon the retracted eyelids the brown curls, descending from a halo-less scalp. For her passion bites, holds a song in her sigh, wields smoothness by her lip, easily sought for like her hips. He touches. He watches. He wields a crease in one hand, the blanketing dress of hers in the other.

In the dark, they are the simplest of lovers. Typical, in their eyes left to wander in the dark gazes of the other. Their pupils and irises make fields, as their vision is left to roam them.

He says upon her, “Is there anything more for us? Anything more to share?” as though hinting at a missing of something.

“We are the passion,” says she, Lisa, the woman who has bled her stars into him, Joel. She has attempted to fade, though again, he is always able to count the one among the numerous. She is, to him, the one unable to die, so long as there is something to hold, something to recount from the rest. From the rest of sweetness? From the rest of bitterness? However it be, Lisa remains to Joel the Asian broth that must contain the tangiest flavors, or otherwise not be considered a cuisine.

Poem – “Held Close, in Arms” – Romance – 4/24/2020

There are days to say
That the world can go away,
Leaving us from its dismay.
We twist stems from the shortest tulips
Adorning the cotton fields.
We twist ourselves, the stems
And bury ourselves in arms.
Close as the world is away
From us, in its utter dismay.
I am the blood, craving a coldness,
While you are the Hell craving a true warmth.
We fan ourselves
In this entertainment,
In this embrace.
We raise flames higher
Than ever we were to dine
Upon lips for the kiss.
What will love be, without every touch
Made for the flesh?
Clean me,
My beauty,
And drop me
In your arms,
As I drop you in mine.
There are devils at play,
Enjoying every trick
They can tell, from their mouths.
Let us list the things
Where we can discover fondness
To heal what was left unhealed.

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

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.

Poem – “The Doomed Harlot” – Romance – 9/21/2019

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?

Poem – “The Remarks from your Wicked Mouth” – Romance – 9/16/2019

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.

Poem – “I Took a Dive into Hell, and Found Love Waiting” – Romance – 9/7/2019

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.

Poem – “From Love to Rust” – Romance – 8/22/2019

I cripple myself,
In horrid wings formed of bleak feathers,
And I have pleasured myself in sadness,
For it was a bottle I drunk from,
That had your bitter tears.
I found love awaiting me,
And drew joy close to me.
Love was stilled, as a heart, buried in dust,
A milk-white breast glided past a heart,
The Devil in me had awoken.
I nested her beauty in a chamber of ice,
And made music from plucking each heart-string.
Death, and its music of somber notes,
Fell upon my ears, and laid there,
Death was my token to realization.
I am a mere man of nothing true to be harbored,
To be expressed, upon sheets with pen in hand.
I have a face that is bruised,
As I deal in the business of drunkenness.
Misery has always been my mate.
Feel the Nihilism crawling gently
And closing its jaws about my neck.
I am a man of nothing comprised to make love a truth,
What I have undone to fail,
As she sleeps between two fallen stones.
Two nails and two pillars,
That have closed shut a coffin.

Poem – “The Rose Forthcoming” – Romance – 8/20/2019

Embellish me, and awaken me,
When surrounded by the long arms
That leave longer trails.
Fail me, if you should find it necessary.
Beauty, you will cling to your tragedy.
Love has given you an ample
Side to each breast, though has faded.
Would you fall with me?
Would you leave me in the disgrace
That I have already deserved?
Death is knocking on my door,
And his jaw is already clicking.
Loss has made a great path,
Not too much alike the embrace,
The one you had once offered.
Dear woman, by what maker possesses you?
You were once someone’s daughter,
And now, as my wife,
Light has left your frozen eyes,
That had once twinkled in starlight.

Poem – “Fervent and Fragrant” – Romance – 8/20/2019

Place yourself as a petal atop my heart,
Alike a stone on my bruised soul.
Dance with the husbandry of a makeshift garden,
One that fades in the approaches of light.
You have a form made of the same stone,
And yet, highlighted by the sun’s warmth,
I see baldness to the places I’ve nested a seed,
I see eyes that claim to be wandering.
I am the man of too many farewells,
And they are those I’ve whispered beneath wood.
Of trees, nectar and vine,
And the fervency from each passionate stare.
Find me where I used to look
Onto the distance, where I draw a ring from a pocket.
I will love and love forever,
To the morrow and to the death.