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Modern Romanticism

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

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

September 21, 2019
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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?

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Erotica Poetry – “From Female Glimpses” – Collection – Poem #1 – 9/16/2019

September 16, 2019
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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.

Curves of a moon!
Curves of hips.

May I kiss you,
Beneath blankets of warm fur?

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

September 16, 2019
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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.

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 – “Her Beauty” – Romance

July 11, 2019
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Beloved, beloved, with all my surrendering,
I have suffered in my strength,
To know not what I beheld,
And it was only you, the simplest thing to show,
How life could be the same,
Simple and so very short.

Your eyes are the glaciers of the north,
And your lips are the raw swipes of paint
On the immaculate canvas.

Your form shows exquisiteness,
Alike to the serpent that trails,
Across the sapphire seas.

Golden tresses rain from between your eyes,
And shove themselves against your shoulders,
Fame is never a reminder to your beauty.
You have it all,
And I have you.
Together, to dawn the tomorrow.

My love, what else is there?
What else to show the world, besides a nest of beauty?

Poem – “My Love, Allow me, to Lift thee, from Tragedy” – Romance

June 20, 2019
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My love,
Allow me,
To lift thee,
From tragedy.

You found in yourself a place,
A shape, a heart,
You are a muse to me,
And I am amused by you.

A love I see so clear,
As the subtle stars,
Beneath widest lakes,
A face so very dark.

And so very light,
As you, the illuminated beauty.

So very low, I have bent my knee,
And offered a circle of gold.

I lift myself to kiss thy cheeks,
No tears, please, beautiful one.
We have cried enough,
And now is enough, more-so the love.

My body once ached,
And now I celebrate,
The eternity to our love,
And the holiest future.

I have found a work of art,
To place on a base, in my heart.
Love; oh, love!
I am nothing without it.

Poem – “Have We?” Romance

June 16, 2019
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Have we expended our future,
Unto the stars?
Have we made ourselves saviors,
With mercy to our belonging?

I sit as a witness to your artful form
That shows shimmers upon a velvet torso.
You have made a God whimper before you.
He was me, the man to whom loves you.

I sit beside you at the elongated table,
And view your beauty in all colors.
You have eyes that show sparkles in blue,
And cheeks that have the deepest hues.

There are reds, in those cheeks,
There is a blue, in those eyes.
You have a face, that has been swollen from kisses,
I have made a mark, through the fame of you.

I am a father, to you, as my child.
So beautiful, with shades of black upon white,
You are desirous, though retain all urges,
To be upon the white, but remain in darkness.

Have we expended those stars,
That are above us in the clearest blue?
Will our kisses at once be shared,
So deep to reach the ocean’s bottom?

I had once made a child who knew to see,
The crystal, the caves, and the ebony.

Excerpt from a Novel – The Devorah of Reims – “An Example, Weaved from a Man in Love” – Dialogue

May 12, 2019
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Bleak and melancholy are these two men, with faces absorbed in dread.

Soon as they tread the steps to the chamber above them, a conversation begins:

“It is absurd how Devorah has shown herself that way! She revealed herself with such lasciviousness to her aspects! How is she upon the stage? I have seen her, though I did not see her.” And these were Bertrand’s words, spoken with the highest tone dedicated to frustration.

“We both saw her,” says Antoine, as he settles into a position of comfort so that his words may spill, unhindered. He continues, “There is as much passion in her, as there is seduction, albeit raving in the latter, and dreary in the former. There is nothing that I admire more, though despise no less.”

“Are such words necessary, my friend, Antoine? That you’d describe her in such a fashion has begun to irritate me,” says Bertrand, casting a dark shade of a glance upon his mellow expression.

“I have begun, myself, to notice that you find fault with everything. Though, I don’t mean to criticize harshly; as I simply mean that you never see brightness,” and the awkwardness is clearly perceived from Antoine’s words, should the reader recall Antoine’s life.

From a dark shade, comes bewilderment, and Bertrand says, “Your mention of me speaking through negativity, is strange enough for you, since you cannot even fathom the opposite. Your home, and your place, is less embroidered in good fortune than from mine. How long ago did your father pass? Your mother fell into a total despair, not very long afterwards, and I see her! Her hair clings to her neck, and her eyes are full of tears, during each moment of the day. This would be, of course, during any time I’d visit you. For I never see her anywhere else, because she doesn’t seem to leave your home, does she?”

“No,” says Antoine, with a single monosyllable word, that was enough for an answer to that disdainful question.

Dialogue – “The Empirical Assumption over a Man’s Awareness to Romance”

May 11, 2019
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Q: As for your belief in a woman’s way to make herself attractive, are you able to explain why you believe it is always necessary?

A: Attraction is like butter, when melted, not frozen, and the connection of love and devotion will make a man melt into a woman’s attractive appearance. Should a woman be hideous, objectively so, then a woman will have made herself a stone, for the man to chip away. She will have turned him into a slave, working with pickax at grueling work. Love will not be smooth in this, and a man will see his romance as he sees his own life.

Q: What does a man want from love?

A: Rest.

Q: Rest should coincide together between a man and a woman. Is this not correct?

A: It is not correct, because it is not competition that drives a man to want a woman. At least, it is not competition against her. He will not want to challenge her mind, challenge her knowledge; he will want to challenge her heart. Her heart will be more attractive than her face or form. To think of her attractive appearances as melted butter, will be a correct assumption, because an appearance should be made easy. The heart of a woman challenges a man, and he will face external challenges to win it.

Q: And why should a man not challenge her mind?

A: It is because to challenge a woman’s mind will more likely cause him to befriend her, over romancing her. Love always begins at a glance. As for friendship, between a man and a woman, will be the same as a man befriending another man. He will feel like a homosexual, should he not be a homosexual, when he chooses to challenge her mind.

The Most Bled Wound

May 8, 2019
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Yearnful heart, with sickness amassed,
I am the beggar, of all desires,
So that I may lift, the veil,
That shrouds, your shoulders.

I see Heaven, placed upon, your mantle,
I see Hell, swirling, in your bosom,
I see breasts, that swell, like beaten limbs,
I see, that compassion, has died.

A tear falls, from my eye, and to my foot,
Where lays, a stem, from some forsaken bough.
A sigh, is released, from my heavy chest,
To meet, with the coldest winter air.
And here is my demise, in seeing your shame,
Raving in the darkness, under your blame.

I know my heart, is cold,
It is ivory, and holds, no red,
The most bled wound, is yours,
That is a heart, squeezed of life.

I was cruel, and you remain, to see,
To see, the guilt, I harbor,
To see, the flame, of sickness,
A fever, I aim to end.

It is a fever, I aim, to make cold,
Cold in the tide, of my own blood,
When my hands, come, to know mercy.

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