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whore of exquisite sorrow



she sees things that were never imagined.
she witnesses poetry that I have not written.

in the deepest night, when even the stars are not
awake, she lies in bed with her eyes closed & her
mouth open, because she tongues the air & believes
that she is tasting me.

I, a knight in tattered armor, am there, penetrating
her tender barrier with the vile rush of desire, & the
breeze that the ocean blows through her open window
cannot extinguish the heat of our lovemaking.

in my days of monsoons & desert winds, I’ve walked on
the dark side of beauty, & I knew not where my passion
would take me. when I needed sustenance, I drank
whiskey; when I needed comfort, I embraced harlots.

but she taught me that love begets sex in a way that sex
does not beget love. she beseeches me to hold tightly to
those transgressions that embellish my stories, though
my art remains unrequited:

‘the whores that are in your heart, keep them there,
  for they are the martyrs of your poetry.
  and your poems are whores.’


of all that is beautiful, the hideous things
are the most exquisite…


(Art: Camillus Fly)



JohnFeddeler
Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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