Drapery. Drapery be, upon my eyes, and from the world protect my innocence. Cover me in the scent of wind, dogwood, barley, and those wanton whores, the roses. Tell me tales of the hunt, lathered canines, of teal feathers, and the slap of leather upon haunch, of heel upon porch, of the eyes of desire upon my person. Murmur me birds, and all that they see, for who sings such without the edification of light. Purl my ears with breakfast pots and not a few pans, black in birth, steeled in labor. Wrap your cord round my nakedness, your geography my skin, your touch, my teacher. Raise me from my waking slumber to the orchards heavy in ripe, bended arms full of nature's lust. Quaff my thirst in the collusion of cloud and sun. And upon my lips leave honey. Mark me in nectar. Make the candles blush and flicker in whisper, gossip or rumor I don't care. But turn me, my wax, to reflected lake, morning pond, to that dear syrup found in heat, in the passion of an orange, bursting peel, our perfume of reveal, of the tender fruit's flesh. But above all, close the blinds. That old lady next door has too much time on her hands.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Drapery
Drapery. Drapery be, upon my eyes, and from the world protect my innocence. Cover me in the scent of wind, dogwood, barley, and those wanton whores, the roses. Tell me tales of the hunt, lathered canines, of teal feathers, and the slap of leather upon haunch, of heel upon porch, of the eyes of desire upon my person. Murmur me birds, and all that they see, for who sings such without the edification of light. Purl my ears with breakfast pots and not a few pans, black in birth, steeled in labor. Wrap your cord round my nakedness, your geography my skin, your touch, my teacher. Raise me from my waking slumber to the orchards heavy in ripe, bended arms full of nature's lust. Quaff my thirst in the collusion of cloud and sun. And upon my lips leave honey. Mark me in nectar. Make the candles blush and flicker in whisper, gossip or rumor I don't care. But turn me, my wax, to reflected lake, morning pond, to that dear syrup found in heat, in the passion of an orange, bursting peel, our perfume of reveal, of the tender fruit's flesh. But above all, close the blinds. That old lady next door has too much time on her hands.
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3 comments:
Leave the blinds, open...
Well, I do like to be watched, so this ending is in direct contradiction to my own nature. Hell, I'd even buy the old lady a pair of binoculars. :-D
I've never known a love quite like this. This liaison between you and the English language that is. Passion so intense it is anchored in eternal devotion, the flame such that even those watching burn. Or should that be melt. :-) A truer neither, derived from your invariable delving, your habitual exploration of her form, capacities and discoverable secrets, understanding the limitlessness of these and so visibly never falling an inch from that elevated plain of enchanted fascination. It is in a composition such as this that awareness is heightened, the charm and grace of vintage diction, rich and luscious, full-bodied and redolent, the caress of Raise me from my waking slumber to the orchards heavy in ripe, bended arms full of nature's lust. (to cite just one), the "curves" of expression, yet it is not this dedication to poetic prose that shows the trueness, but the ongoing gathering within your pages at every point (of every co-ordinate so to speak) along the curve of expression, with such honor. Loved this.
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