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the myth of beauty



who is the fool who would put you on a pedestal?
or worship at your bare feet?
such feet should be made to crush rojo grapes:
wine for the satyrs.

come with the mystery of your eyes,
your lush arrogance, your fragrance stolen
from vanillin & coumarin, or the flowers
that die for your vanity.

come with the curving & full temptation of your
flesh, smooth & soft; un-muscled arms,
legs not made for marching, but for dancing.
challenge the desire of the male beast, hard & hairy.

make a pretty bed, & lay waste to the mightiest
warriors, who crumble like children
under the feather of your touch.
shear the dark locks of Samson.

am I the cuckold, that I must sacrifice my lust
at the altar of your corrupted temple?
men have made songs of it. drunk & rowdy,
they scandalize it in redlight taverns.

you ascend to the tenuous threads of goddess
by the myth of your own beauty –
but I am the savage who swings the blade
of your demise, & I cut the strings…

I would bruise your body first, woman,
then suck the pain from each blue scar.




Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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