As she wakes to the wrench of the radio’s blare, She’s not there. As she tries to decide on the blouse she should wear, She’s not there. As she dawdles her breakfast of yoghurt and pear, As she spends all her morning with coffee and stare, As she foregoes her lunch for pilates with Claire, She’s not there. And all her afternoon that passes in her chair, And on the bus and on the train while fishing for her fare, And waiting at the checkout as she vaguely winds her hair, She is always and never quite there.
On the second morning afterly The Feast of Middle-Winter, I walked-out with my true-love Through the brittle lambent-glinter – I walked-out with my true-love Till our cheeks were flush with pinking, And I asked my wind-teased beauty To me whisper of her thinking. The said she thought of Crystal Jack, A diligent delinquent, Who caught the sun and shone it back As glistered-golden clinquant. I walked-out with my true-love ’Cross the sparkled, gelid loam, And so we warmed each other’s breaths Until the starlings bid us home.
Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend, Hanging around with her trouble-brewing sort, They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
Not an easy woman to defend – Probably at what she really shouldn’t ought. Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.
Build your hopes up – and watch them all descend. Hanging around her will only get you caught. They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
Seeking action ? How much can you spend ? Probably life for the trouble you just bought. Bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend.
Sex and menace – hazardous to blend: Hanging around, and you quaff her by the quart. They always knew how she’d turn out in the end.
So they tell me – none would recommend. Probably wise, but I’ll take my chance to sport With bad girl Ellie – dangerous to friend – I can’t wait to see how she turns out in the end.
I love the way your halves combine. I love the way you place each lung With careless grace and good design On either side your centre line, And equidistant from your spine. I love the way your ribs are strung.
I love the way your shoulders fit, I love the way your arms construe. I love the way your kidneys sit, So each, the other mirrors it To keep the couple quite legit. I love the way your hips are two.
I love the way you wear your legs, So nicely paired, and just enough – For with a third, the question begs Of where upon your frame it pegs. I love the way you keep to regs. I love the way you’re up to snuff.
I love your face with eye and eye, I love the way they both are blue. I love the way they flit and fly In unison, to watch me pry Upon thy tygrish symmet-try. I love the way you’re balanced-through.
The penultimate line is inspired by how I always read the fourth line of a certain poem of William Blake’s.
I offered to take her to Pisa – I knew she’s never been. I offered the beauties of Giza, And ev‘ywhere between. I offered her Sinan and Plato and Gluck, I offered her Ozu and Donne I offered her Titian and Tolstoy and Hooke, And ev’rything, ev’rything under the sun. The whole of the planet was waiting before us, And all of its wonders were ours. But no, she left with the stranger from Taurus – I could not compete with the stars.
detail from Experiment with an Air Pump by Joseph Wright
Soul-Lights
Perhaps she is just a chimera, Or otherwise born with this curious guise – For ev‘er‘ytime that I’m near her, I cannot but help to look into her eyes. Perhaps she has suffered a trauma, Where blood is now staining her iris tattoo That partially came to transform her, With one eye of hazel, the other of blue. And further, her hazel is golden Encircling her iris, but greener beyond. Her stare surely has me beholden, Her pupil eclipsing its het’rochrome pond. No contacts nor tumours nor ’Shop-tricks Are needed to give them what rarely occurs. If souls can be glimpsed in our optics, Then softly she carries a rainbow in hers.
detail from Woman Writing a Letter by Gerard ter Borch
Epistophile
Her lovers’ ink, the sneerful think, Is sentimental brine – But no, I say, for each cliché Is lyricment divine ! The very fact her tritesome pact Is heaped upon my shrine Is surely worth all laboured birth – Her rapturelust is mine ! Her spotted graft becomes a draught Of witticismic wine – Her passion grows in purple prose, To bloom incarnadine.
detail from The Moneylender & His Wife by Quentin Metsys
Caveat Emptor
You need saving, I think, you need saving – I don’t know from what, but you need it, and I got it. I choose to lease myself as investment in your craving, (Though nothing gets refunded, as your credit-rating’s rotted.) You think I look expensive, and you think you can’t afford it – When your faith is unsecured, and your int’rest rate obsessed. With all emotions overdrawn, your hope is due an audit – Now you’re out of guarantee and about to be possessed.
Expensive ? Me ? Most surely yes, And very very dear – I will cost you ev’ry single thing, and nothing less – I will cost you all you know, and all that you express – Your ev’ry laugh and ev’ry scream, Your ev’ry try and ev’ry guess, And I will cost your ev’ry lie, and ev’ry truth sincere. Your ev’ry insecurity and neurologic mess – They all belong to me, you hear ? Mine is your perdition, absolution and confess, Mine the power to repress, Mine the power to redeem. I shall be your angel engineer, To grease your thread and mesh your gear, And shine your rusting soul with my caress.
You need saving, I think, you need saving – God knows as from what – you don’t know it, but you’ll get it. I choose to bond myself upon the markets that you’re braving, Expose my soul to risk until we’re equally indebted. You think I look expensive as I gilt your fraying edges, But you’ll enter into contract on my exponential sureties. My platinum promissory shall underwrite your pledges As you finally take stock of all your life-assured securities.
Dizzying ? Me ? Forever yes, And very very sheer – I shall cost you ev’ry single thing that you possess I shall cost your ev’ry hope, and watch them coalesce. Your presentide is mine to gleam Your morrowment is mine to bless And though I know this terrifies, I’ll help you persevere. For mine shall be your ev’ry waking thought and sleeping dream, Mine your ev’ry failing scheme, Mine your ev’ry sweet success. Guilt and joy and lust and fear – They cost far more than money mere, And these are how you pay for me – by bushel, peck and ream. And then, what is more, I press My darling with an added stress – For not just shall you suffer this to give your love supreme. But see, you must attend my tear – For like you, I too revere – So now you must accept the very same from my extreme. Give my passions safe address, For we are quartz, my love, and we are steam.
I intended this to be a metaporical contract near the start of a relationship where one side is saying that they will monopolise all of the other’s attension, but when shown to friends they saw it differently – one thought that it was some pretty hardball divorse negotiations, while another saw the narrator was money itself. Hey, if these work for you, have at it.
I think it must have been a day When ants were flying In July. A long and hot and wingèd day When ants were flying By and by. And that was when we chanced to meet, With grounded ants about our feet.
Those virgin queens and horny males, On scorching days In late July. The queens fly fast to test the males On scorching days When ants must fly. The lads were swarming when we met – But then, one shot is all they get.
The lucky males take turns to mate With picky queens In late July. Upon the wing, the ants shall mate – As jacks and queens Shall fill the sky. And I met you beneath their flights, With royal weddings in our sights.
The girls bite off their wings to reign As wingless queens In late July These girls will never fly again – But hey, the queens At least don’t die ! And you and I were changing lives, As queens got down to digging hives.
you won’t believe how many online AI image creators I had to try before getting this, so kudos to Imagine.Art
Patina
Her hair is purest white, not quite, Her skin is hinted bisque, Her eyes are palest blue in hue, Her lips are coral kissed. Her subtleties of shade displayed Are never blanched, but lush – And with a gentle goose, educe A gorgeous crimson blush.
I would just like to add that the goose was consentual.
