Jeremiah 14

I stroked her hair, drier than the wind that blew through rotting sheaves that lined the pathway to the door. I wondered when we would eat the wood, how its chips would taste: What would its browness feel like, gliding down our throat - would it glide, or would it stick and give us splinters in the larynx? By that time, we won't care, I suppose. Like passion for a lover, hunger will come upon us - our flesh will swell with its glory, our stomachs pull inward like the clenching of thighs, and we will forget - what, exactly? Happiness? No, we have long since forgotten that, along with love, sadness, and all those other human emotions. Like the true animals that we are, we spend our days engrossed in the struggle for survival. We scrounge around for food, the way we used to scrounge around for lovers - it all comes back to sex, I suppose. I want to say something corny, like "I have left certainties behind". I want to write poems about kisses and flowers. I want to lie: to lay, here, stroking your hair, just a little while longer, kissing the wind with withered lips, too tired to caress you with my words - they burn on my tongue, like lack of water - please don't say "like lack of love". I am not convinced love's not more than a bit of leftover acid in the cerebellum - or is that sadness? It gets confusing. So let me bury the nose of my not-yet-corpse into your body, stronger than the winds that fade like night-time, more breakable than those damned pieces of straw that line the foyer, where stroking your hair, I lie: Kisses and flowers.

Jeremiah 13 (Equally Rough, Yet Alternative, Draft)

Take the white and tie it beneath the rock.

Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.

Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.

Water flows over rocks the color of your fingers;
white breaks like bracken - green tongues
swirling like eddies.

Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!

Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.

Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.

Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel he disliked her gingerbread cookies:

She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.

Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?

You shushed kisses into her ears,
felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
the furling and unfurling of tongues - the bracken, floating
between round rocks that once held white foam,
between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.

Jeremiah 13

Take the white and tie it beneath the rock.

Take the rock and shove it beneath the river.

Take her, softly, between your fingers,
breathe her between your thighs.

Water flows over rocks the color of your feat;
white breaks like bracken, green tongues
swirling like eddies.

Do eddies swirl, or did I read that in a book, somewhere? What a cliche!

Like quivering thighs, or some such metaphor for the love of God,
for birth, death, creation, and everything, coiled up into this moment,
into your tongue's flickering and unflickering into my mouth -
but I don't think that word exists in dictionaries.

Fuck dictionaries. Fuck you.

Rejection is not the splitting of lips like reed seas - it is simply an alternative ending to the fairytale,
like when Hansel told Gretel that he disliked her gingerbread cookies:

She sat in the snow and cried, blond hair and red mittens spilling into white-covered ground.

Does brown earth remind you of a graveyard?

You shushed kisses into her ears, felt the rounded tips fit into the crevices between your lips,
furling and unfurling of tongues, echoed in the dancing of the bracken, floating between round rocks
that once held white foam, between thighs, between fingers - breathe softly.

edit first stanza?

9. I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies

fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies.

Listening to Vivaldi (2nd Draft)

1.

I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies
fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies,
 ruffles caught between fingers that crawl like bugs up my thighs.

2.

They say the neck of a woman is like the handle of a violin,
long and un-pluckable. It is her waist that sings
beneath your fingers, her breasts that fit into the spaces
between your thighs.

3.

At night, your string black chords into rotting wood;

the bow sings across shadows, fluttering like butterflies

folding and unfolding their blue wings, like a fan

serenading the sweaty necks of black-haired ladies.

4.

Palms caress palms; notes linger over purple chairs.

The un-pluckable ladies hover, stoccato, around the table.

You ponder the music in that piece of skin:

Would it be soft and melodic, or more dissonant, like the work of Shoenberg?

5.

You flex your fingers.

6. 

A lady fingers her diamond earring, and sighs.

She plucks with her fork, at a rotting piece of salmon.

Her red dress coils around the creases of my fan -

your lips coil around my sweat-coated neck.

7.   I ponder the music in that piece of skin.

8. You flex your fingers.

9. I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies

fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies,
 ruffles caught between fingers that crawl like bugs up my thighs.

Variation (I am essentially just writing out different drafts - I want to tighten this but must go to bed soon.)

4.

At night, your string black chords into rotting wood;

the bow sings across shadows, fluttering like butterflies

folding and unfolding their blue wings, like a fan

serenading the sweaty necks of black-haired ladies.

Palms caress palms; notes linger over purple chairs,

as the ladies, still unpluckable, hover, stoccato around the table.

5.

You ponder the music in that piece of skin:

Would it be soft and melodic, or dissonant, like the works of Shoenberg?

You flex your fingers, tauten the strings.

Is there music in that piece of skin?

Listening to Vivaldi's "La Follia" (Rough Draft)

1.

I fold myself into you, like a fan - paper covered with butterflies
fluttering against the sweat-coated necks of black-haired ladies,
 ruffles caught between fingers that crawl like bugs up my thighs.

2.

They say the neck of a woman is like the handle of a violin,
long and un-pluckable. It is her waist that sings
beneath your fingers, her breasts that fit into the spaces
between your thighs.

3.

At night, your string black chords into rotting wood;

the bow sings across shadows, fluttering like butterflies

folding and unfolding their blue wings, like a fan

serenading the sweaty necks of black-haired ladies.

Palms caress palms; notes linger over purple chairs,

as the ladies hover, stoccato, around the table,

their handles still unpluckable.

4. 

But oh, what music in that little piece of skin: 

Would it be soft and melodic, or more dissonant, like the work of Shoenberg?

5.

You flex your fingers.

Note

So, in a previous post, I wrote the line:

"Isn't acting the art of seducation?"


I am very torn; I meant to write "seduction" and feel it fits in better, but I also love the neologism I accidentally coined: education about sex, education through sex (not just about sex, but about the world). It kind of reminds me of the Greek ideal of the lover-tutor - an idea I find morally abhorrent in reality, but one for which the word "seducation" is an apt description. I am including this note, because it is a compromise with myself: Instead of going back and substituting "seduction" for "seducation", I am letting you know that was my original intent, so you can do so yourself, if you desire, or not do so, if you do not desire.