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chamber of broken lovers
these sordid tales are returned to the crypt of a mordant past
when my notebooks are locked away in the old, scarred cabinet.
I take them out when I desire to repeat my own sins.
there is torment in each orgasm that we struggle for;
there is pain in every I love you.
the chamber of our perverse meetings remains in the gloom that
attends our lustful incarceration. the walls are silent sentries,
yet the moonlight intrudes.
she offers me kisses & silken caresses; she ordains herself my lover
when I crave her naked body, to touch her yearning skin & suck the
firm mesas of her flesh, which is fruit to my bruising hunger.
her hair hangs in rusted tousles, her face is pretty & sad, sadder
than winter. she’s a woman who comes to me for the passion that
abides in us, ignited by our union. but I see her as a wanton whore
in a long, depraved line of whores.
on the bed, we twist in our madness; if I hurt her, she’s there to be
hurt. she spreads out to be eaten, & I taste the champagne of her
hedonist fountain. her moans echo in our green jungle.
when I’m aberrantly aroused, I grab her hair & put her on her knees.
I beat her to keep from beating myself, & I know she’s ecstatic in
her misery. there is no justifying of our pagan sexdance, there is only
the fire of rapture, & we succumb to it.
as my larceny ascends beyond avoidance, she closes her gray eyes, &
my payload goes where I aimed it.
the moon at last departs in tolerance, & I wonder what joy is this that
makes her weep, as the tears drip down her face –
through the humiliation of cum…
(Art: Laure Guillot)
Published 30th Dec 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 12
reading list entries 3
comments 9
reads 1410
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
30th Dec 2016 2:23am
A woman's heart is a chamber of secrets no human archaeologist could ever discover.
I can't summon the word for how I feel. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe that's his secret.
I can't summon the word for how I feel. Maybe there isn't one. Maybe that's his secret.
30th Dec 2016 2:39am
Sadder than winter, the fire of rapture to keep us warm,
and unforgettable tears of joy.
Masterfully passionate poetry, John...
and unforgettable tears of joy.
Masterfully passionate poetry, John...
30th Dec 2016 3:47am
This is very passionate, lustful, seductive, real and dark.When it comes to feelings I'm both turned on, disgusted, angry and uncomfortable. overall, I enjoyed reading this great piece that made me reflect on what it means and feels to have sex.
Anonymous
30th Dec 2016 6:30am
I believe this time, John, I have a favorite line in each block...I'm willing to bet you can pick them as well...gently wrapping a broken heart...after hitting the target precisely where you intended...always in awe of you....With love, always - Kitten xoxo
30th Dec 2016 8:37am
Yea John this one you ripped from the soul
sadder than winter - much before a winter fire
sadder than winter - much before a winter fire
30th Dec 2016 11:56am
31st Dec 2016 8:52pm
Every Write Crafted John!!!
The things we do with and for the heart- at times beastly!!!
Excellence!!!
The things we do with and for the heart- at times beastly!!!
Excellence!!!
31st Dec 2016 11:53pm
The poem is an odd mix of intense romanticism and dirty-realist vulgarity. I like best how you convey a landscape, of trees, fountains, and so on, emerging in the emotions and sensations of the lovers, keeping description of the actual physical setting to a minimum to bolster this imaginative creationism. Thank you for the read.
Anonymous
6th Jan 2017 10:15pm
In my eyes, you still remain King of Noir.
But it really should be: the King of Noir Pain.
Every time I read you, something sparks inside.
Like a tear.
Anger.
Disposition.
Jealousy.
Admiration.
Don't know if it's intentional, or perhaps, recreational?
Whatever it is, I do thank you.
Only because, and at times, I do discover myself, somewhere there.
This needs to be poetically written, in my POV.
~love from your Devlin/Doll
