deepundergroundpoetry.com
Gradara
I called her Smoke – she was the smoldering
after the fire.
she looks at me like that: projectors of her sultry green eyes,
& I drop into those whirlpools, freefalling without an umbrella.
she won’t give me her number, so I can’t call. I delete phone
messages rudely if it’s not her voice. when she comes, she
brings coffee from the corner café; omelets on artisan bread,
cakes with French names that I can’t pronounce.
when she speaks, the dulcet tones of Garbo resonate. the
words fall silently; I’m lost in the corridors of her mouth.
tight, plump, sinister red. I kiss her & her lips part slightly,
enough for me to break in.
she turns away from me, to remove the shackles of her garments.
as I watch, the most undeserved fantasy overfills me. when I
sleep, there’s no need to dream.
her nakedness would compel a lover to compose devastating
poetry, if she were with an intellectual man. in my uncultured
heart, her flesh remains my cloistered secret.
the scandal that we fall into is an aberration of dirty sex. she
has an addiction to degenerate abuse; I don’t understand it, &
it hurts me, but I do it. ‘treat me like the lowest, vilest whore,’
she beseeches me, & I do it. I do it for her.
she leaves in the middle of the night, & I wake up in a lonely
place. I suck the bitter fruit of anger then, which is the residue
of love dispatched.
we are strangers in a bewildering novel that can only be composed
as a romantic tragedy: a mourning Stradivarius & torchlit cobblestones.
so I drink the hours until our next union –
making love to love, & fornicating sorrow…
(Art: Walter Girotto)
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