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melancholy passion of whores


sadness beguiled.  she gets that way
when the rain makes curls in her hair
or when she’s been reading Plath.

she wants what I will not give up
my colors: autumn & dust; stigmatic brown in my eyes.
so she sprays those colors in her hair.

I admonish her with sullen berates.
are you a kept & devoted woman?
my lover  –  my violation  –  my whore?
I am, her whisper echoes.  I am   I am

she scouts the caverns of my heart
to unravel the cro-magnon desires that beat her
and beholds a lust that is furious & untamed
and a love that cannot be named.

she accepts my cruel hands, that sting
her rubified cheek, but she will not cry.
she regards me in silence if I ask her why.

we dance only when the music stops;
her orgasms ignite in the choreography of our sex.
she holds back my shell-shocked trembles,
when I sleep on her breasts.

in finding her, I lost something.
perhaps there is a heaven for the lost things,
and when she finds it, I will lose her.

I write her as she writes me,
in the blue water of a poem;
and in old romantic places, we are strangers…


(Art: Germa'n Peraire)

Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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