deepundergroundpoetry.com
bread and poetry
.......
in the burnt eaves
of her mind
midway on a
journey to
herself
she confesses
to stingy silence
breaking hearts of
tea-stained poets
eating
their tiny verses
their boldly
exposed veins
embossed
on crumbling
papery skin
writing ~
kiss
me
lash
me
so she takes
her
broken steps
trailing blood
back to
the
half-light
in her mind.
.....
in the burnt eaves
of her mind
midway on a
journey to
herself
she confesses
to stingy silence
breaking hearts of
tea-stained poets
eating
their tiny verses
their boldly
exposed veins
embossed
on crumbling
papery skin
writing ~
kiss
me
lash
me
so she takes
her
broken steps
trailing blood
back to
the
half-light
in her mind.
.....
Published 4th Sep 2015
| Edited 5th Sep 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 11
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comments 16
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The author encourages honest critique.
5th Sep 2015 00:25am
Anonymous
5th Sep 2015 5:19am
Love it
'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..'
~ Milton
I like the symbolism of the 'half-light'. It was Jung who said,
"I must also have a dark side if I am to be whole."
5th Sep 2015 8:14am
Stark imagery and metaphor... The pain and sacrifice of poets is only known within those who feel and write on the edge of their soul...
JJ
JJ
5th Sep 2015 9:20am
shld that be 'breaking hearts of tea-stained (or perhaps tear-stained) poets'?
at any rate, radical verse; kind of a church of the poisoned mind...
at any rate, radical verse; kind of a church of the poisoned mind...
5th Sep 2015 5:42pm
5th Sep 2015 11:24pm
5th Sep 2015 11:24pm
Yes Aha, once we learn our own dark side may we know anothers and deal compassionately. ty
5th Sep 2015 11:25pm
5th Sep 2015 11:26pm
5th Sep 2015 11:27pm
6th Sep 2015 2:26pm
6th Sep 2015 7:42pm
in "the eyes: emetic fables from the andalusian de sade", jesus i. aldapuerta wrote...
“Consider the capacity of the human body for pleasure. Sometimes, it is pleasant to eat, to drink, to see, to touch, to smell, to hear, to make love. The mouth. The eyes. The fingertips, The nose. The ears. The genitals. Our voluptific faculties (if you will forgive me the coinage) are not exclusively concentrated here. The whole body is susceptible to pleasure, but in places there are wells from which it may be drawn up in greater quantity.
But not inexhaustibly.
How long is it possible to know pleasure?
Rich Romans ate to satiety, and then purged their overburdened bellies and ate again. But they could not eat for ever. A rose is sweet, but the nose becomes habituated to its scent. And what of the most intense pleasures, the personality-annihilating ecstasies of sex?
I am no longer a young man; even if I chose to discard my celibacy I would surely have lost my stamina, re-erecting in half-hours where once it was minutes. And yet if youth were restored to me fully, and I engaged again in what was once my greatest delight – to be fellated at stool by nymphet with mouth still blood-heavy from the necessary precautions – what then? What if my supply of anodontic premenstruals were never-ending, what then?
Surely, in time, I should sicken of it.
“Even if I were a woman, and could string orgasm on orgasm like beads on a necklace, in time I should sicken of it.
Do you think Messalina, in that competition of hers with a courtesan, knew pleasure as much on the first occasion as the last? Impossible.
“Yet consider. “Consider pain. “Give me a cubic centimeter of your flesh and I could give you pain that would swallow you as the ocean swallows a grain of salt. And you would always be ripe for it, from before the time of your birth to the moment of your death, we are always in season for the embrace of pain.
To experience pain requires no intelligence, no maturity, no wisdom, no slow working of the hormones in the moist midnight of our innards. We are always ripe for it. All life is ripe for it. Always."
... i don't know why you reminded me so much of this passage here, perhaps because we do not write only the joyous moments, but also those that leave us feeling irreparable; we taste everything twice (regardless) as though it's a compulsion... irresistable
*
as always, you stir me to think
merci cherie for a wonderful read
xoxox
“Consider the capacity of the human body for pleasure. Sometimes, it is pleasant to eat, to drink, to see, to touch, to smell, to hear, to make love. The mouth. The eyes. The fingertips, The nose. The ears. The genitals. Our voluptific faculties (if you will forgive me the coinage) are not exclusively concentrated here. The whole body is susceptible to pleasure, but in places there are wells from which it may be drawn up in greater quantity.
But not inexhaustibly.
How long is it possible to know pleasure?
Rich Romans ate to satiety, and then purged their overburdened bellies and ate again. But they could not eat for ever. A rose is sweet, but the nose becomes habituated to its scent. And what of the most intense pleasures, the personality-annihilating ecstasies of sex?
I am no longer a young man; even if I chose to discard my celibacy I would surely have lost my stamina, re-erecting in half-hours where once it was minutes. And yet if youth were restored to me fully, and I engaged again in what was once my greatest delight – to be fellated at stool by nymphet with mouth still blood-heavy from the necessary precautions – what then? What if my supply of anodontic premenstruals were never-ending, what then?
Surely, in time, I should sicken of it.
“Even if I were a woman, and could string orgasm on orgasm like beads on a necklace, in time I should sicken of it.
Do you think Messalina, in that competition of hers with a courtesan, knew pleasure as much on the first occasion as the last? Impossible.
“Yet consider. “Consider pain. “Give me a cubic centimeter of your flesh and I could give you pain that would swallow you as the ocean swallows a grain of salt. And you would always be ripe for it, from before the time of your birth to the moment of your death, we are always in season for the embrace of pain.
To experience pain requires no intelligence, no maturity, no wisdom, no slow working of the hormones in the moist midnight of our innards. We are always ripe for it. All life is ripe for it. Always."
... i don't know why you reminded me so much of this passage here, perhaps because we do not write only the joyous moments, but also those that leave us feeling irreparable; we taste everything twice (regardless) as though it's a compulsion... irresistable
*
as always, you stir me to think
merci cherie for a wonderful read
xoxox
8th Sep 2015 00:18am
8th Sep 2015 00:23am
TY Shadoe for this interesting essay! I feel that pleasure may swallow one as well.... can make one obssessive. ..yes stringing O's never gets old to me...We taste everything twice...yes.
23rd Sep 2015 6:00am
Woo, your wordings darling gets to
me every time..every time! this piece
made my inwardly realms scream
their echoes.. .
"she confesses
to stingy silence
breaking hearts of
tea-stained poets
eating
their tiny verses
their boldly
exposed veins
embossed
on crumbling
papery skin
writing ~"
Seriously? Oh sweet gods,
you are supremely well
sculpted by the divines..
Magnifique! forever shall
you be...
-Howlings
me every time..every time! this piece
made my inwardly realms scream
their echoes.. .
"she confesses
to stingy silence
breaking hearts of
tea-stained poets
eating
their tiny verses
their boldly
exposed veins
embossed
on crumbling
papery skin
writing ~"
Seriously? Oh sweet gods,
you are supremely well
sculpted by the divines..
Magnifique! forever shall
you be...
-Howlings
