Posts Tagged ‘Lust’


She has become
the benefactor
of bad advertisement.
Willfully hidden
though not reclusive.
The sweet nectar that
entices and drowns.

Fecund and frail green
filled and surrounded
by dead flies. You know
not to touch her, so you
admire instead.
The momentum of nature
comes from this tension.

A school boy
runs his hand up her leg –
the leg of a girl. 9th grade
is hard for everyone.
Such courage he has never felt
thriving and pumping
in his head and heart.
To fly, or a fly.

Dioanea, the teacher
of Socrates
the Virgin Mary
of Ancient Greece.
The mother,
who sits and waits
as devious as she is
pristine. Her ancestry
bringing a ruler down
on the boys desk.
To save, or to savor.

The sheepish hand withdraws.

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Stockholm Syndrom

Inspiration is back
to steal and reveal
I hope my hands don’t fail my eyes
or the heart they inform
because the brain they conceal
Doesn’t trust our conclusions.
It can’t know what they know.

First Impressions are back.
familiar things are new
as if more real than real
words made material
A girl’s hair, the wind, a moving car,
A symbol, a sign, a detour
they’re being metaphorical.

Imagination is back
like lemonade on a summer day
quenching but conditional
sweet before sour.
Its always eventually sour
like a last kiss
(that’s the one they never talk about).

Impersonations are back
trade one face for another
because nothing is really new.
Besides which it’s easy,
and unavoidable.
Was I supposed to believe
I’m the only one she talks to?

Temptation is back
to call me a king or prophet
to offer me alchemy for ink
gold for words
greatness for loneliness
exile to paradise.
The devil has inspiration too.

Inspiration is back
the called lover in chains
welcomes the captivity
for a change of pace
there is a tenderness in her embrace
despite its inescapability.
Love devouring. Love devoured.

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Previous Entry Found At: http://veritasexlogos.wordpress.com/2008/05/22/stories-told-to-be-forgotten-vii-the-intruder/

The darkness was pierced suddenly by the sliding open of the channel between Clay and the father. Inside the cramped iron maiden the thick dust could be tasted but not seen. Clay let out a choked whispered prayer for forgiveness later rattling on uninterrupted about the plethora of sins both new and previously omitted or more likely forgotten. The father sat in silence out of disbelief or perhaps even shame over his fellow man’s emotionless enumeration of his adventures. When silence finally returned to the chamber the father groaned and pulled from his vocabulary the one word Clay did not expect to hear.


“No I shant have it, your my guest. Well, my father’s guest. Take a seat and I shall fetch the tea.” The foppish man waved his arms hysterically before retrieving his spectacles from his pocket. He seemed old in motion but youthful when still – his dress reflected something of a by-gone era but his angular features and beardless face made it look modern and stylish if not slightly outlandish. He wore a navy blue bowtie and suspenders over a plane white dress shirt. He had draped his sports coat over a antique looking chair before shooting off into the kitchen.

“I think we have some misunderstanding.” Elle pleaded while still standing.

“Nonsense. I see things all too clear. My father, like all men, has given into the nature of our kind and found himself a youthful mistress. For what other reason would you be in his study without a stitch of clothing on.” He paused as he fiddled with the oven. Elle searched for the proper words to say, to come clean, to admit to her sinful night and beg for this strangers forgiveness. But before her heart compelled her to speak, he continued.”


“You cannot be forgiven. What you have done is completely contrary to God’s will and you have done it more than enough times to make a habit of it. Until some way of education can be devised to purge from you the taste for sin I cannot in good conscious forgive your sins.”

“Is it a sin to give into your nature?”

“To be a beast?”

“To be too human?”

“You cling to your beastliness for justification but what of the other side… the higher side?”


“This explains why father was so happy before he died. Even as the Alzheimer’s gripped his mind he kept saying: My soul has ascended. The old man was all doom and gloom ’til that moment. He would shuffle around this house finding solace in antiques and books from exotic places. It was unnatural. A man cannot go that long without a woman’s touch.” Something in the way he spoke brought comfort to Elle. The man wanted his father to be happy, and if that belief kept this man afloat than why bother his bliss with such a trivial matter of detail.

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

“Pierce Fletcher. Yours?”

“Elle Scardenelli.”

“A beautiful name, for a beautiful woman.”


“Even Adam, before sin gripped his bones, was undone by a beautiful woman.”

“You quote scripture to suit your purpose, but you throw out the rest. Even the devil can quote scripture for his purpose, Clay.”

“I need this.”

“For what, Clay? To write another one of your trashy novels.”

“With your grace perhaps I can make them more than trash.”

“You’ll have to ask the Lord about that issue. I have a higher side to worry about as well, and it will do nohting but poison my spirit if I forgive you on the grounds you have provided.”

“Then educate me. What is it that I can do to atone?”


“I write novels. Well, sort of. Father said it was always a waste of time, that I would never be like Homer or Shakespeare, so why bother? Unlucky to be born at such a point in history were all understanding of art has lost. It takes a civilization of immense culture to produce such a writer. By we’ll never know if we don’t try, right? I want to write something great, something sweeping, a definition of our time and place.”

“What will it be about?”

“Haven’t really gotten that far yet. I am taking a trip for inspiration.”

“Where to?”

“I know some monks that might take you in.”


“Yes. They live a secluded life up in the mountains. They offer a retreat for spiritual travelers looking to come to the grace of God. I believe one of the brothers there was a writer like yourself. People go to him for teachings on the written word.”

“And if I don’t go. You don’t forgive me.”

“That’s the deal.”

“I suppose the fresh air might do me some good. Where is this place?”


“Kentucky.” The foppish man replied without missing a beat.

“Kentucky?” Elle prodded further.

“The trappists have a monastery down that way.”

“A monastery?” Elle tried to imagine this professorial type in robes.

“A trappist monastery. In New Haven. Its called the Abbey at Gethsemani.”


“You want me to go to a monastery. In Kentucky.”

“Only there will you find salvation.”

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Belle Noir

Iris MacDuffin, a peacock butterfly,
with eyes like cigarette burns
which reflect her chiaroscuro –
the complimentary schism that
divides her, was so much
more than a white whale.
Though often her pale skin
made her a shadow’s double walker,
like some gothic non-being
or even worse a once-was.

Of all the places for her to come,
why she walked into mine I’ll never know.
She spoke only in sepia tones
about bland pre-Kodak recollections
tainted like artifacts too long buried,
which had no point, nor narrative,
just the bland presentation of facts.
Yet still, not without complications, an attraction,
a deliverance – something unusually mundane
yet shockingly poignant –
Like a pointed absurdity. Or a machine
with a woman’s soul inside it.

Those eyes – with the thin crisp
outline of color curling around
a massive dark planet – they darted without ceasing.
They were revisionist siphons – utterly blank
so that they could take things anew and recreate.
Her body was never too far behind her eyes
following around the room, dragging a finger
across the dust. She moved neither fast nor slow;
neither graceful nor clumsy; but oddly
like a film shot at 22fps.

Everything about her was unnatural,
an observation that made her laugh
since she had come to realize that man
could be nothing other than unnatural
unless he finally gave in to his bestial lychanthropy
howling at the moon like some lunatic Spartan.
It was this notion that made her so cold
for even love was just an unnatural passion
that came from outside us to sweep
us out of sepia toned history
and into the colors of the present.

This is why she could not have been my holy grail,
for she never existed outside her own mind
in any real way. She was her own windmill
untouchable and surreal whose being was utterly imaginary.
Despite my desire to have her
she escaped through clenched fingertips.
The night she died, some years later,
I read the entirety of Hamlet aloud
alone in the study we had once gathered in,
as if she were there. Words, slander, more words.
He finally made sense. She finally made sense.
I, however, never changed. I still desired her
despite never being able to love her.

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Last night I kissed his mistress
Once, on the lips, in silence.
I thought I might’ved missed his distress
as he’d feel her hips, in violence.
She took me for a spin
To feel warmth, to forget
The look of him or from within
When his hand was around our necks.

She wasn’t there for the intervention
Intoxication drips, he’s sober now.
Friends, created by my own imagination,
show off my bruised body, his brow
Arching at how he had fell.
I bottled my fear and my anger, into one,
this thing I call myself.
The person she made me become.

Last night I kissed her again
Two long sips, a numb alliance
drowning in Manhattan,
For only a moment, I forgive his reliance.
Together we spin, spin, spin,
and feel warmth, and forget
the look of him, red with sin
with our hands around his neck.

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