More 18th Century Literature

That I, Madame Maman, did with little Warning & scant Regard for the Proprieties of Nature, ease Your careless Frills & all the Perfumeries of Your Gusset aside, & assayed my fulsome & happy Rod deep within your furred Bowl, I make most humble Admission ~ & the Admitted being thus Admitted did consequence itself to merry Emission ~ for this I truly find Conscience & all the Vagaries of Gender does repress the concommitant Words of Apology;~ nevertheless, joyous Hymnals of Gratitude slip warbling-wise from my humoured Lips to fill the Empyrean with this Paean to Your Charms. X

Loving

I don't pressure you -

Just Love

It's been a long and stormy passage, my love. Your faith and patience has shamed me, mocked me, and given me strength I never had before. From our heady cataclysm, through our salad days, and then the mouldy months when the slugs of doubt gnawed... but that snowfall before christmas was the purge, killing the pests.

It never felt like a rebound, not even at the very start. I know you were more cynical. It was inevitable that doubt would creep in via the portal of my boys' big sad eyes. I should be thankful for the fact that my ex-wife stuck to her nature, which was more than a match for the children.

You have me now, not callow, not seized by a fizz and a reaction, no matter how delicious that springtime was, but grown out of a slow learning and maturation. I know you think me an idiot, basically, flippant and prone to flipping this way and that. But I can tell you that the love I've grown into for you is a love seasoned by some of the fiercest months of my life: and because you've been strong, deflatory, and smiling through most of it.

Thank you, my love. But I'm still looking forward to the spring. This one will be our carefree one.

x

15 minute vomit in my journal (no editing don't see the point can't be arsed)

Monday November 22nd 2010

Month of gloom and sludge. Feet cold beneath the desk watching rain slide down window panes. I'm thinking about what we said and how we said it and rage and tears and despair. That's not like us, or is it? What's gone wrong? Or going wrong? The other night (Saturday, the night before you left) you said it was 'over' again because of some insult or other. I'd said you were arrogant or conceited or both. I've said it before and I know it's not true. Oh but you do like the sound of your own voice, as my mother would say. Before you said you loved my glad babble but now it just repeats and drags. Have I run out of things to say? Run out of steam, of juice, of salt? Am I jealous because yours darts and streaks light-footed across the pitch of the green wool blanket that covers both our knees? Jealous because you hog the conversation - wild-boar you. Disappointed that I let you when I too have something to say only I don't think so quickly or that I don't trust my thoughts and turn them over, examining first fallen apples for worms.

Whisky soured stink of despair. I wish you didn't want to die. Remember just that morning you smoked to spite the steep path and we stopped to look at the mute city stacked against the sky? Were you thinking of dieing then while I was trying to figure perspective and trying not to imagine a world without you in it? You bastard. You put that chasm before me and even my long arms can't reach across, except that they can and then I realise I should have been doing that all the while and saved us some of the grief. Warmth and simplicity. Warmth and simplicity. Let's not forget that's all we need for now.

Word Salad Fridgewrit 2.

Strategy over poetry - I find myself elucidating the uselessnesses of rhyme when your pained or painfully bored murmur stirs me to clutch at my copy of Das Kapital and defend the relevance of the class struggle. Exploding with righteous indignation, my glance, like a misfired arrow rebounds from you shining, oblivious eyes. I spurn your consoling arms in my feverish conviction. The sacred vine (clump? urgh!) that produced joy’s grape was planted by the horny brown hands of toil. I slather rabidly and curse the entwined rose whose sickly come-hither fragrance cloys the torpid air and the festooned locks of Apollo’s languid muses, the vicissitudes of who’s whims and fancies, I squeeze to a doughnut-shaped ball of contempt

The rankled moon waxes and farts.

I remember those miscreants gorging themselves on pleasure, delving deep into the simmering pools of lust. I slam my trenchant hooves upon the fallen bouquet, crush and grind the salaciously beautiful petals into the honest sod. You look amused and curious, as if a pristine angel  had just shat on her harp while exposing two pierced breasts. Yet..

I will not abscond no matter your obscurantism. What is salient is our difference which is tantamount to compatibility. My hair might be tantalising, my nature munificent, but I will still inspect that pink species of Rosa. & note the hard day's graft of the worm. You humour and cherish me. I know not why. For in love & affection, I am neither profligate nor ripe.

Word Salad Fridgewrit

Your peace is hard to find though you elucidate the ways of slow fragrant flowers, your murmur like a warm breeze as we clutch our fingers in complicit struggle. All exploded with that arrow shining towards the direction of understanding. I spurn the old fever of patching and shoring tottering castles; nothing sacred there any more. The vine-clump gleams in the sun, above the brown slather of the cess, entwined with a rose that breathes her scent upon the torpid air, festooned with blooms that counter all viccisitudes and squeeze all harm to naught.

The moon, I must remember.

I am allegedly a miscreant: seeking pleasure, delving trenchantly for some bouquet that scents the air with the beautiful grace of a curious angel's breast. Yes, I did abscond, for reasons obscure to many, salient to me, and tantamount to damnation to most. But your hair is a beacon that strengthens me: tantalising, munificient, a pink tropical species I cherish for all its profligacy of nature, and its promise of ripeness.

Dxxx

Panegyrical

On the commute, surrounded by grey-whey-faces, I sit and smile at reminiscences of you.

Your eyes: cool, uncertain, creasing suddenly at the corners in devilment and amusement; melting and rounding as your heart breathes and fills; flickering with sudden irritation, rolling up and sideways.

Your habit of sitting, three-quarter profile, your nape and line of your jaw visible, a single eye darting backwards to gauge my reaction before returning to the distance in front of you. I keep shifting to look at you and you keep turning slightly further away. A circular dance. A spinning-chase.

You are biting the insides of your lips. A mixture of nerves and flexibility, feline, spasming suddenly to scritch and scratch your electric coronet, shaking that violent pink nest of seasnakes, setting them dancing and flying in a temporary frenzy, stilled as swiftly as started. The way your lips part, softly, invitingly, then hungrily. The way you sit up straight when imparting a jewel of recondite information, such as the breeding habits of orang utangs and butterflies, or the number of uses for the common peony among the Laps, or the influence of Hegel on lettuce-growing.

Your ragdoll manner when you fling your limbs to stretch, heedless of colliding and knocking my poor block off. Your pained sense of undeservedness; your joyous glint when you accept you are loved. Your langour, smoking in bed, as circumspection slowly takes precedence over peacefulness, a peace that is lovely to watch even as it slowly ebbs.

Your competence, efficiency, physically you are a marvel to watch. A lithe spring that occasionally tangles itself in its own gleaming coils. Your nakedness, serpentine, eyes glowing, body hard and pliant, tigerish, scented with a hundred musks, a grove of flowers. Your breath is my breath and my lips your lips.

Forgive this clumsy word-painting. Every letter is written with love.

X