Archive for romance

The Romantic Imposter

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 26, 2018 by beautifulimposter

It is a fine evening, the sun making its way lazily through the deepening blue sky, gently kissing the line of the horizon. There’s some respite from the heat of the day but still, there is a haze in the air, a faint mist clinging to any bare skin. The air seems perfumed, like someone has just split open a ripe tangerine, a thick, sweet scent of flowers mingling with the usual aromas of cars and pavements and people. Yes, it is a fine evening indeed.

“I love you” the words are a sigh, the exhaling of a breath, quite, meant only for the ears of the loved. I brush past the couple, two women holding hands, one’s head resting lightly on the others shoulder as they stroll. I’m quite sure that neither would have noticed me even if I was apparent, even if I’d bowled clean into them. At best I would have been a momentary impediment to their closeness. I can see the threads, red as red as red winding between fingers, knotted and plaited in their hair, tied to lips and tongues and lashes. Not my work, no, the province of another, but I can appreciate the craftsmanship, the complexities of each tied to each, a web of words and touches.

I still along as I am wont to do, letting my eyes wander, following the strands. It seems a night for lovers, the streets cross crossed with fine weavings. A young lad stumbles, a girl laughs and just then a streak of crimson runs from her mouth to his heart. It may amount to nothing at all or it may give birth to a tapestry, but it is a beginning, a hint, a promising of expectation. Not all such seeds bear fruit, but I find the potential pregnant within them intoxicating. If nothing else after all, I am made of nothing but possible so it is my nature. I like to think I could have been a romantic.

Further on an old man is winding up the awning over his shop. His skin is pricked all over with threads, an explosion of crimson webbing him to his store, to the windows above it, to the stoop, the bustop down the way, if you follow them all they’ll touch upon the whole neighborhood in some fashion. The Legion Hall where they’d first danced, the old bench down by the park where they’d sat and held hands, fingers laced together like piano keys side by each. There’s one that flies over to ‘Nam where her letters had kept him less broken than some. One hanging above a mantle somewhere where she’d fought for them both, getting disowned in the process. All the places he and her had touched together, even the bare room where she became nothing more than a shape barely described beneath the sheets, her hand eggshell in his. Fifty six years of thread followed him as he shut up shop, thrumming beneath his skin, telegraph talking of the good and the bad and the inbetween. I can’t help but read it all, feeling a bit of the voyeur, but it makes me smile as I move through the growing evening.

It’s all beautiful in some way, I can’t help but feel it, even I, perpetually and very necessarily alone. Here and there I sneak a few stands into my pockets, they won’t be missed and are quite useful. My footsteps become a waltz, slowly turn and turn about, moved by such aching, beautiful love, all the strands of it being played by the gentle summer breeze. I sigh as well, soft and low, mingling with all the others.

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The Imposter Steps Out

Posted in Fun stuff, Poetry, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 18, 2018 by beautifulimposter

There are few times that The Rules permit my touching the mortal world in any appreciable fashion. So, when such moments do arise, I must admit, I do approach with a certain gusto. Only my best, inky blackest, long tail flowingest coat will do (I’ve only the one coat really, I just will it to be fancier and slightly more sinister) as I walk out of The Tower With No Door, my boots scrape out an almost jaunty tattoo on the cobbles. The weight in my pockets tugs at the corners of my lips, my hands dipping into my pockets, fingering their contents, rummaging through until I grasp the box. It’s going to be a lovely day.
The Real folds around me, the Borderlands fading, trailing in whispers of strangeness. It’s a bright day, golden, early spring I believe, vague haloes of green hovering around the shapely, nude limbs of the trees, a rich jade mist rising from rich black soil. I seem to be in a park, some kind of open area with footpaths and trees and little benches. People flood and flock, whirling, almost grounded starlings in coats and scarves. Some sit, enjoying the bright but weak sunlight, wrapped in a fragrant fug of steam from cups held just below their faces so that their breath gets tangled in it. It is all too perfect.
I stride with purpose, pulling out the small casket, a shimmering four footed little beast that gleams like beetle wing case, purple-blue-green. I reach the rough center of the square or commons or whatever, watching, anticipation jumping nervous cat like from my shoulder blades. I set the box down reverently on a little table marked out for chess, fingers twitching as I manipulate the mechanism to open it. It’s very complex, I fumble with it a moment in my excitement. I would curse it’s tricksyness, but I know it needs be thus, don’t want it opening randomly, which it most certainly would do if left to its own devices.
The lid springs open, yawning out a rainbow. Within, flashing very strange glimmers are embers, coals, white hot, seemingly made of every single color and shade, some you’d know, others you’ve never heard of nor contemplated except in your stranger dreams or if you’ve hit your head particularly hard when they might flash momentarily at the edges of your vision. So lovely, crackling there, alive, wild, expectant. My breath catches, oh how I love this bit, I truly do…trembling, fingers itch crawl forward, digging in to my trove, writhing beneath, feeling the utter oddness. Imagine dipping your hand into fire made of water, it’s like that only not at all. I gather two fistfuls, great big bunches, holding my hands at my sides, tilting my head back, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, shivering in delight.
I let out a self indulgent whoop, tossing my hands to the sky, fingers uncaging, the bright gledes scattering, little crumbles of madness showering about like sparks. The set things afire, crackling blazes of bizzarre flames. I watch as it spreads, licking hands, turning hair into crowns of twisting strands, blown up by weird winds. Randomly, a passerby pirouettes, their feet alight, eyes flashing surprised delight as this touch of madness moves them. Songs break out, laughter, tiny bits of personal strangeness flow outward. All of this is wonderful, but I wait, I watch, for the best part. I see a spark nestle into an eye, the iris contracting, shimmering a very, very different color. This is it, the subtle change, oh yes, the shift. They look about, everything new, every single thing just a bit different. There is fear and wonder and exultation etched on thier features. Now, forever, this one will see the whole world how no one else sees it and will paint it, write it, sing it how they see it and it will change others too.
I cannot help but laugh, spinning in place, grabbing more, moving off and trailing madness like glitter. Never too much, never in one place lest the fires consume, that would be a horror not countenanced. No, with care, with prudence I spread the breadcrumbs of insanity on a spring day, setting the whole world ablaze with dreams. Tee hee…

The Kiss After

Posted in Poetry, Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 19, 2015 by beautifulimposter

This could be viewed as a companion piece to “Not My First Kiss”, or maybe a finishing of the thought, a codicil that turns wistful nostalgia into something perhaps more hopeful. All I know for sure is that it is something that has been on my mind much of late, looking forward to that next kiss

I have gone on at great length about kisses. It is entirely likely that I have written miles of verse or prose dedicated to the subject, describing as best I can all possible varieties, shapes, conditions that a kiss may take or have. The fashion they can linger upon the skin or in the blood, the deep, lasting marks they can make upon fevered brain or tempestuous heart. One could say it is a favorite subject of mine, both a connoisseur, collector, and something of an expert even, if I do say so myself, although I think I could dig up a few testimonials to support the claim if I tried. The thing is, there are simply so very many kinds of kiss. The first kiss, the kiss goodbye, goodnight kisses, the best of which may turn into good morning kisses, languorous kisses that last whole afternoons and greet the dusk with sultry succulence, breathless take you by the spine and drag you to your feet kisses that fall down upon upturned lips like lightning, ringing in the ears like thunder, kisses that contain laughter, kisses that taste of salt, every hue or mood that passion may bend itself to will each have its print. All of these though, from the greatest to the least, all pale in comparison to that greatest of all kisses. The next one. The one your lips remember from birth as the faintest whisper of trembling, a dull, wicked ache like a blade scraped over the raw nerve that is you, the one that only exists as a pressure differential, the even if you kiss the same mouth forever and ever promise, the ecstatic, shiver up and down the spine in supreme, expectant, agony of antici…pation kiss. There will be in any life a multitude of kisses, some better, some worse, but I think that it bears noting that the best kiss you will ever or could possibly ever have…is the next one.

Courage of a Kind

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on August 2, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I keep dreaming of courage
Just one day, out of the blue
Take a girl by the hand
Dance her about the floor
Slow, stately whirling
A little Gene Kelly, maybe Fred Astaire
Chaste and elegant
There would be plenty of room
For the Holy Spirit.

Just something sudden and free
A bit of romance,
Her hand in mine
One two three…one two three
Spontaneous anachronism
Blue jeans t-shirt summer dress
Waltzing along to
“Lady, Your Roof Brings Me Down”
Elegant, measured, surreal
Just one moment to forget
My cowardice,
For a turn or two.

Dark Strange Love

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 30, 2015 by beautifulimposter

My mind is set upon midnight
Amidst row upon row of old headstones
Chill, grinning, broken teeth
White marble no less smooth and fair
As your skin gleaming
In the glow of candles adorned
Reclining on a blanket of claret velvet
Clad in gossamer webs of purple and black.

No bright summer fields for us
Nay, nor sun dappled streams
We lay out our picnic
Betwixt the aisles of this bone orchard
Oh morbid spirits we
Drinking current wine rich as blood
Your fine carven hand a drip with juices
As we sup upon pomegranates full and fine
Beneath cold, distant stars,
The fat moon old ivory high above.

Come dance macabre with me
Let us two lonely ghosts
Make merry as we may
Treading lightly upon such reminders
Of our frail mortality
Let lips taste such sweetness
As they can before our hour is struck
Drink of one another deep
A love as dark and strange as ours
Tis one will surely keep.

Trying To Drown

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on July 23, 2015 by beautifulimposter

Kissing is drowning in reverse
The good kind is anyway
Sinking into it, breathless
Clinging to the depths
Until you’re deafened by the blood
Clanging sharp in your ears
Surfacing, gasping
A fish desperately seeking water
The plunge back beneath
Swimming in thick honey
Tongues that can speak only each other
A million tiny deaths
Snatched back by breathy “I love you’s”
Fingers caught in the tangles
Clutching t-shirts
Wandering whisperers
Exploring the limits of polite geography
On park benches or bus stops
Willfully ignorant of cleared throats
Because seriously
Who can heed such things
When you’re trying to drown?

Slow Dancing

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on July 14, 2015 by beautifulimposter

The music is in her hips
And you just can’t help it,
She’s in your arms like magic
And she’s looking at you like you’re mad
As you dance around the living room
Or over the curb as you paused in walking.

She may laugh,
But her arms still make a necklace
Fingertips brushing the nape of your neck
As you both spin slowly in place
Caught up in the song
Vibrating soft along the ribbons of your veins.

Everyone knows these steps
Fingers and lips and feet playing the pauses
The changes, a duet of subtle everyday ordinary beauties
Two bodies in time, swaying
Wrapped up in the silence
Too happy lunatics dancing along
To the music in her hips.