deepundergroundpoetry.com
Berlin nefarious
there is a road that leads to the dreadful joy of a
hedon in the dolorous distant past, but you don’t
want to go. in my dream, searchlights scan the
cumulus sky, discovering zeppelins that float languidly,
like airborne pirates.
neither are the streets safe for me nor the kokaned whores
that I pursue, seduced by all that is unholy in their aspect,
& their eyes.
it is for the silken arms & the kiss of a tender temptress,
though her lipstick is infused with poison, that I wander
these idolatrous cabarets, else I would die of loneliness.
the Kit-Kat Club’s music is a mix of jazz & tango. I am drawn
to the platinum Harlow waves of a gently pretty girl, who
glimmers in the windowed moonlight like a fallen Madonna.
she does not smile, but takes my money stoically, & we
hasten to an insidious rendezvous.
in a room just off the strasse, she is my private dancer,
slowly removing her thin garments. as I touch her breasts, I
wonder if her garnet nipples are still sensitive, having been
mauled by so many drunken, filthy mouths.
upon my knees, I lick her indented belly, tasting the lingering
dew of abandoned village grass. I caress her thighs, warming
their bland coolness with my fevered cheeks.
and your little, demure ‘lady of the evening,’ beneath the dark
pubic hair, will she embrace me with a damp, velvety friction
when I enter her?
we adjourn to the bed, & engage in our primal connection.
she stares off to the side, unaffected in her melancholy trance,
as I thrust, vindictively, toward my own hideous lust.
I achieve my pulsing apex, & cling to it for but a few moments,
wanting to prolong my possession of this beautiful, conscripted
maiden. & I ponder the utter assassination of passion, which has
no place in the sordid encounter of a whore & a lonely revenant.
as I return to my solitude, I pretend that she, whose name is perhaps
Anita, or Marlene, is my paramour, & will love me again, soon. for
there is no love in my life, except that which is pretended…
Published 6th Jan 2016
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6th Jan 2016 11:18pm
I can't tell you how much I love this. You put the images in my head and I want more! Nobody does it better then you! And the picture, right on! SO damn good! 😊
6th Jan 2016 11:21pm
Many soldiers felt that way during wars.
I imagine those who had no wives or girls
to return to were more so, and clung to
the only distant relative of "Love" they could.
I never knew who I felt more pity for, the soldier
or the whore who so often was called forth
by a memory of another's name.
I imagine those who had no wives or girls
to return to were more so, and clung to
the only distant relative of "Love" they could.
I never knew who I felt more pity for, the soldier
or the whore who so often was called forth
by a memory of another's name.
7th Jan 2016 6:00am
that's the beginning of a great story. you could write an incredible piece based on the topic.
I know something about soldiers & whores; I think you do too...
I know something about soldiers & whores; I think you do too...
7th Jan 2016 2:44pm
6th Jan 2016 11:54pm
Once again you've painted a picture with your words where I can almost see the mist that that in my mind must rise up from the dirty city streets. I can taste that dew of abandoned village grass myself. It is a seductive and sad piece with a sadder still last line. I loved it and envy your talent once more Mr F.
i sometimes wonder
if love is for those
who don't yet know
what it truly means
to be lonely ...
... i read you
& i'm not so sure ...
adore the shades of this, mister
if love is for those
who don't yet know
what it truly means
to be lonely ...
... i read you
& i'm not so sure ...
adore the shades of this, mister
7th Jan 2016 1:26pm
there is no love in my life, except that which is pretended…
I love the noir, "between the wars" feeling of the piece - one of my favorite periods...
And there is nothing like a good exit line...
Thanks,
I love the noir, "between the wars" feeling of the piece - one of my favorite periods...
And there is nothing like a good exit line...
Thanks,
8th Jan 2016 4:36am
8th Jan 2016 10:37am
8th Jan 2016 9:18pm
Love the title and the wonderful images this bring to mind..Excellent ink as always John !!!
Anonymous
- Edited 25th Sep 2020 3:45am
9th Jan 2016 4:16am
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
9th Jan 2016 8:28pm
Beautifully written story: sordid and heartrending. It really pulls a reader in and has them live there for a moment. The nod to Byron led me to read his piece again. Stunning contrast.
12th Jan 2016 2:39am
"upon my knees, I lick her indented belly, tasting the lingering
dew of abandoned village grass. I caress her thighs, warming
their bland coolness with my fevered cheeks." --- the muse was heavy in that chilled over night. Though the drifter's pulse carries us through the ice. Much love this and pic.! Wonder what she's gazing at? - blue angel
dew of abandoned village grass. I caress her thighs, warming
their bland coolness with my fevered cheeks." --- the muse was heavy in that chilled over night. Though the drifter's pulse carries us through the ice. Much love this and pic.! Wonder what she's gazing at? - blue angel
4th Dec 2016 9:57am
Love the artwork, her body language, her expression, really adds the the ambiance.
Chasing loneliness, or rather, escaping it.
And the last line was exceptional. Well done, John, well done...
Chasing loneliness, or rather, escaping it.
And the last line was exceptional. Well done, John, well done...
