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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
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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.

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Novel – Chapter IV – “Signs of a Man in Love” – Romance – 9/17/2019

September 17, 2019
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Hope is a well that springs eternally the warmth of possibility.

Though, for each individual possibility, there should be a guide so that further loss is not eventual, and never inevitable. A leader, that is, should reassure the sorrowful that there is greater light than such a hopeless one can ever consume, to fill whatever void has been created.

Beauty has a message:

Beauty asks for one of two things, “I must be protected,” or “I must be destroyed,” while the former is fulfillment, while the latter is mere temptation. A desecration of life, does a woman yearn to fulfill herself in this; and could she step upon a flower to feel fulfilled, or perhaps destroy the entire universe? Temptation is an infinite thing, and upon its path, the only thing that is represented is failure, the death of many things. As for each life, the only failure to conquer it, is the one that kills it.

We speak of all this, soon when Joseph enters his beloved’s abode, which to him, was his own previous abode.

And he finds his woman strangled by braided twine.

He finds what she remains as, the grace of tears, the notion granted from loss, and her hair! Her hair, such a latter detail from the previous fewest words, represent now the multitude of wires that engross the finality of humanity. To become the corpse, would be to become the machine. The puppet, to which we find it mattering to say should be controlled.

A lifeless thing, her named was Barbara, the love of Joseph, too stricken by his abandonment to edge herself further through life. Wires for hair, alike the machines that are beginning to conquer the industry of our setting in London.

Fear.

Failure.

Torment.

All words now a part of a bruised puzzle becoming wholesome flesh, as Joseph kneels to the defeat of himself. He does not speak, though rather chooses to rub his face in the floor, below him.

His tears run as the dew that folds itself over leaves in the morning. Like the leaves that bend when the dew droplets make their travel to the pointed end, Joseph, as well, bends his form close to the floor, by the same maneuver. Angelic, it seems, that his torment has become, and more is guilt the persistence to reveal that torment; for that is because he is closer, himself, to dying, and relating himself to the hanged corpse, before him.

He feels a sense of shaping, as though his soul is calling him into the body, before him. The body that has a wind against its skin, so that it has begun to swing. It would not bleed, not even in description of that its blood has ceased to flow, though in that such a woman named Barbara would not show remorse.

She had done this deliberate act for proof, and only this, perhaps in hopes of a coming stranger, or even Joseph, to find her.

Every suicide is an act of proof.

Those who say to each of them determined to end all, the words that go by the ever-more deliberation of doubt, are received with words that say, “If only I had said otherwise.”

Would further love turn this tragedy mended? A failure that Joseph has engrossed himself upon, has allowed to show wound upon wound in himself; and now, he only shows kindness to the floor, because he kisses it. He wets it with his tears that blossom freely from his eyes. They would be like blood, were ever Joseph to hold pain as physical.

A wound of the heart, is always cured by love. It is a fixation, a focus, this emotion, this feeling, that is determined to heal. And yet, love may only heal the heart.

Poem – “I am Here to Accompany” – Romance – 8/29/2019

August 26, 2019
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Sweet darling,
I am not the Devil I take me for,
A paranoid wad of feces,
Has become my mind,
I face the future with a blank stare,
As idleness caresses my hands.

Fear is my only betrayal,
To this woeful heart.
I wish to care, and to accompany
Each tear that descends,
From each of your delicate cheeks.
Beloved beauty! I am here.

As fear has become my Manhood,
What do I do with it?
Console me, as I desire it,
And lead yourself not astray
From my trembling form,
I do love you, despite my silence.

My love, my angel, my everything…
I would die to know,
What you think of myself.
To pen and to paper,
I write these things, though I’d always prefer,
To draw my sorrow on your porcelain form.

Poem – “The Flesh that now Guards Me” – Romance

August 7, 2019
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When upon the time in a distant romance,
When love once guarded her form,
When a frame had guarded a painting,
When my arms had guarded truth,
I knew for once in my life,
That my home is not this home;
It is the space in her heart,
And upon a face, where quivers an aching smile,
I would die to know her, again,
And make beauty remember me for the while.

Death has shaped her space,
A black heart has now formed tendrils,

Corruption has made its presence,
Am I still in love, or have I made death?
When modesty once placed itself about her,
As the love I made to guard her,
It was always a remembrance,
It was always a field of achievement,
It held a texture alike to those cheeks,
The ones I kissed adoringly.

My beauty, make we weep,
Beneath the moon of the evening melting
Of its silver coloring, in where I repeat,
“Make we weep! Beloved, make me weep.”

I breathe dust now over your shoulders,
And find merriment only among petals,
Where your tresses caught the air.

Flesh now guards my skeleton, and I’ve grown old,
Like the robes loose about the monk,
Like the hair loose about a woman,
Like the tears loose about the eyes,
Like the serpent coiling about the lie.

Love, with a breast I cup in one hand,
And your face in the other,
Would you rise if I kissed the mouth,
That said we weren’t worth the long road?

Poem – “Blinding Tears, and Blinding Rage” – Depression

August 1, 2019
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I am seated, with my head in my palms,
And I ponder to myself over what I’ve lost,

Besides another tear.

Another tear,
Another flake to the ashes,

Another memory to the burial,
Another fragment from the heavy weight
Seemingly lost, and now,
The Earth possesses it.

Of blinding tears, and blinding rage
That seems to be all I feel.

As my emotions are frenzied,
Between these two voids,
These two bleak confusions,
These two natural diseases.

Failure stings as much as it bleeds.
Wounds are nestled on my heart,

Guilt has wrapped itself
Around my tired form.

My form, vivid in all its gleaming,
Of all wounds with ragged flesh.

I would never be proud,
Of anything I’ve conquered,
On either fertile shores,
Or watery deserts.

Love once made its way to my mind,
By a singular path
;
It drew so many marks,
On where I allowed it to roam.

And now a mirror blocks my path.
It is my own path;

And a path, with such a mirror
That shows my face.
Revealing death, I see two eyes like orbs of steel,
Made present in what they reveal.

A face of ruby, and a heart of stone.
A man of no mercy upon his tired body.
I draw emptiness around,
Like a frigid cloak taken from a tundra,
Love, at my left hand,
Death, at my right.

And I collapse them, together.

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 – “I Believe in Beauty as a Forethought” – Romance

July 22, 2019
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Make of the torment,
What thou will,
Make of it.
The priests call cues of negligence,
Make faces ripe with consequence.
And deliver judgement,
Like God in deliverance.
Oh, woman! A passion of mine.

A careful consideration,
To what may be beautiful
,
Has long been beautiful,
Beside me, in her endearment.
Beauty makes apples,
And apples for breasts.

I am tired of loathing
The external,

Of my sordid disposition,
Of my farewell declaration.
Of my mimicked beauty,
Of all you see of me.

Let me lick thy throat,
For guilt has overthrown me,

From the crown of achievement.
Deceit! Give me wielding,
Of all immeasurable beauty.
Have I North before South?

Have I lips before groin?
Have I mind before loin?
Lovely is her exterior, so vivid with life,
Aromas, and the fertility of the soil.
Of ocean breeze, and Autumn leaves.
Of stillness in death, and stillness in love.

I make of her, what I have always willed,
Until the day I dine on her form
.

It is a form of violet ashes, and much to be mused.

Poem – “Face Me, Twisted and Broken” – Grief

July 13, 2019
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Face me, where you stand,
As your face shines the warmth,
Upon my disastrous form.
My body is heavy
With the pain of illness.
Disease has struck me,
Like the stick upon the drum,
Like the madness upon the mind.

My eyes are seen in yours,
As they too, swim in a lake of tears.
Do not be so idle,
When faces look upon yours,
To cast pity in your direction.
They are only in the attempt,
To be kind,
For they wish to offer a heart.

Take in yourself,
The solidness of a new morning.
My beloved,
Your face is so very wet,
With the tears.
But, I implore you!
Do not blame
Yourself, for yourself is too new.

There is much sickness in me.
Embrace me once more
Upon this rotten bed.
Let the tears be sweet,
And the kisses deep.
Show me not this pain.
But, make me a blessing,
For your heart.

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