Image for the poem Traviata


there are places that a sullen drifter should not go, things
he should not do. circumstances afford temptations, & a
man is no more, & no less, than a man.

it was a bar like any other bar in these crude towns. the music
had a moody tranquility. whiskey was disdainful in glass bottles
with foreign labels, & the women were for sale.

the girl I chose had pale skin & long black hair; to say her hair
was like strands of silk is artlessly cliché, but there is no other
way to describe it. her features, which did not bear the spectral
bruises of coarse, bearded sodomizers, made her seem out of
place in this den of whores.

the room at the old hotel had three grey, bleak walls, but one
wall was white, as if it had been bleached. in the bath, she sat
on the commode by the sink & washed my erection with a damp
cloth & brown, porous soap. her hands were gentle, angelic.

she lay on the bed quietly, like a soft, sensual mannequin, for me
to abuse. my hands roamed smoothly over her breasts as my
finger & thumb nipped the timid garnet swells. I barely noticed
hues of green & blue seeping from the upper corner of the white
wall, like liquid leaking from a cracked vase.

she remained silent as I kissed her porcelain neck & shoulders,
feeling her belly & the down-covered treasure below it. bands of
yellow streamed upon the wall from the right, wands of a distant sun.

she parted her legs & made the slightest sounds as I entered her
tight corridor. she moved her arms to caress me, & in the dance of
our thrilling friction, great splashes of red & shades of violet sprang
up in the wall’s white center, like demented roses.

more intense were my movements now on the flesh of this girl who
seemed to be in the grasp of her sexual awakening. she held me
firmly as she received the flooding torrent of my passion. & the
canvas wall was a vibrant tapestry, a field bloomed into magnificence.

we had done something that went beyond sex:
we had made art!

but this girl, who had made love like a woman, was perhaps a year
(or more) from being a woman. I felt that I had defiled this beautiful
maiden before her time. she was too young; she was too young!

she bled on the bed…

(Art: Rafael Cerda)

Written by JohnFeddeler
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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