Among the things for which Augustine prayed stood Chastity up high within the set. But know you, too, that when he worded out his avid plea to God about the time he hoped this virtue might be given him, he added a “not yet”.
Culprit moon! How much you made me fall in love. It was when we were splayed beneath your argent light that I first took my fleshed delight in her. And she, since then, when ever you arise to grace and course and whisper through the darkened skies, conspires with you to make me wish to sin with her again upon again.
I saw today an older couple sitting on a lakeside bench. These two (of more than middle age) began a small togethering by touching hands as if they were again in courting days. And I sensed then from noting how they sighed and in a sleepy pleasure closed their eyes that suddenly their tiring world, weighed down by years, and often felt as drained and dry, was made for them, and them alone, renewed.
I wonder if you’re capable of writing verse that’s not about calamity or man’s “bright” Gnostic otherworldly destiny, or how men are depraved, like beasts, unsaved, unsave-able and jealous, full of damning lusts, or just how much you love the lord and see in him relief, release, from this world’s misery?
Can you post, instead, a gentled exploration of the subtitles of love with cunning vibrant words, not heavy-handed ones, as is your wont, that show, not tell, through simile and metaphor and...
Her laugh arcs out upon the world a magicked music glittering and set to burnish air, its conjurings, its lulling, breath depriving art, like sirens’ song, a soft implacability, unfair to my resolve to keep in my old age a guarding 'round my heart.
Did you know my heart (a thing that god begat) has blinkered eyes?
It’s not a lie.
But I’ll admit that saying so (especially when looking at a bloodied ram) is passing strange. Am I deranged or even damned? Perhaps. But let me see how often I (and artlessly?) can speak of “heart” within some verse in which I claim nonsensically I’m trying to avoid remorse for things for which I can’t be blamed. So even I have cause to ask "oh what's the...
It simply isn’t true as one, through ruptured syntax, claimed, that every moth’s intent when drawn unto a siren source of light is then to end its life. It has no such desire for suicide. And if it suffers winged demise like Icarus in coming far too close to flame, it surely was, because of little strength or brain, an accident.
Here’s something that amuses me about the way my woman’s come to be: So stubborn in her language sways is she, convinced, convicted that she’s always right to boil when syntax gaffes are on display, that I am bound to say there’s little doubt concerning just how free, not faint, she’ll feel to post without restraint corrections of the grammar God employs within his text on sinners and on saints that’s meant for judgment day.
How with an air of quiet grace she’s come into my life so like the way the moon slides silently behind a cloud. And only yesterday I thought myself too old to be an object of desire, too winter-waned without, within, ice greyed and blurred to have once more the heart inside me stirred.
There’s wrath behind her smile. Her jaw is set in thunder. A coil of hard contempt lies deep inside her limbs and if she comes determined to caress it’s only then to see how easily she’s able to draw blood There’s nothing I can do or say to soften her away from all the miseries she’s known from other men that thoughtless words of mine have brought back to her memory, reminding her of just how much their hold on her survives.