“Carnal apple, Woman filled…” Damn it St. Neruda, I am alone in the dark, dripping with sweat, losing my mind. It is not the moon that is burning but a visage, a nymphic vision that by the vicissitudes of fate, exists vicariously in the spirituality of your words. “Love is a journey through waters and stars, through suffocating air…”
Reaching through stygian skies, to touch an ethereal enchantress whose closest sobriquet is holy fire. I look at my cross, my imagined crime, then I look away lest order dies. Nymphet eyes, nymphet smile, Delphic guile in the midst of change; Placed on pedestal, possessive and possessed, it’s like she never had wings, yet I fly on a singular dream, feeling alive. Ravishing, rapturous, fire setting my blood on blast, “Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness….” And SHE IS FIRE.
My eyes close, vision replaced. What should have been dark is light. That unsatiated hunger, perdition’s aperture. Bubblegum marble, cosmic leggings – purples, reds, pinks, blues, sable eternity. The colors of pleasure, the colors of pain, the shades of sin, the stardust of Aristophanes’ unity.
The silken silhouette of her burning pubis, yearning mound, bulbs of sweet grass, within in reach. Watching me with primal knowing, her hips rose playfully, before rolling over, for another nubile display, the imaginings of a biblical virgin bride, devilish, beautifully dirty, beautifully awry. “Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,”
There is a feminal way, a slight wiggle, a curvaceous change, in which reality disintegrates, brick by brick, mile by mile. Her ample, taunt, supple ass stretching color to the brink of clarity. The open back of her shirt, shimmering skin, skin so fair, so faultless, so kissable, “your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages…, transformed by delight” And I am nothing more than a Pavlovian pup trying not to salivate, but the bell is an unceasing alarm, my sleeping shadow awakening in agony. Twisting, bending, breaking, silently shattering, unnoticeable to all but au natural eyes of tragedy, hers caged mine. Feeling under-dressed, soul exposed, her archaic smile slipped inside…
Ash and ember clung to her form, while I smoldered, trapped in glass. She stood so close, not wanting to talk, not knowing what to say. Just staring, thinking, cultivating concupiscence, curiouser and curiouser, shaking with fear, bursting with flame. Beneath the presumption of innocence, the fallacy of youth, was the devouring wolf-heart of a tender, predatory goddess. Her quickening breath smelled like daises after fresh rain, the shine of her gloss blew through me and I looked away.
I watched her change, haze to goddess, one I can never taste, one I can never have. Dripping with sweat, soaking stolen vestures, alone in the dark, the abyss stares back. So far away, “a nocturnal carnation, to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.”
I burn in loneliness, I burn in frustration, I scream in nocturnal, fostered rage, because there is no alternative for the possibility of the unreal, there is nothing more mythic than a living, breathing, magnanimous monolith made of myriad crystalline forms, just fucking beautiful… “Carnal apple, Woman filled, Burning moon… nothing but light in the dark.”
Neruda, patron saint of fallen paragons, the anathematization of consumption is to not know what it is like to not know if I am her or I. Unified, two bodies ruined by a single sweetness, slipping through the narrow channels of blood, one into the other. Instinctually remembering the wholeness of existence, before the blades of Zeus.