Archive for romantic

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 Birds Will Still Sing

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 17, 2018 by beautifulimposter

Birds sing because they want to
While I am sure there are other
More scientific reasons,
Purposes of biology and evolution
I see no better reason,
After all, wouldn’t you sing so
If you could?

Therein lies the beauty I think
Song for the singing
Joy and revelry for simple being
Hymns of sun and wind beneath wing,
A chorus for bright bead eye
Turned skyward and flying dizzy.

Too many envy birds thier freedom
Hence cages, it sooths bitter heart
To see such wildness cloistered
As if we too locked up song and blue heaven,
Unaware or perhaps just denying
That they will sing and dream regardless.

I for one take comfort
For as rock crumbles, pride falls
Ash and smoke rise in choaking cloud
They will be there, mad charlatans,
Ragged finery ruffled, still pinwheel turning
Still singing, above it all
In the forever blue.

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?

Speaking Poetry

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

It’s the kind of hot that clings
Sticky, like warm honey
Sleep is impossible
Damp sheets a scratchy second skin
So we lay awake
Watching the fat, butter yellow moon climb
The blank bruise purple city night sky.

Your shoulders are against the wall
You say it’s cooler, skin against the plaster
The back of my head rests on
Your belly, glowing soft and gold,
Fingertips making lazy whorls on my brow
When you shift beneath me slightly
I can feel the hair between your thighs
Brush the back of my neck.

My lips are dry, throat parched
You’ve had me talking to you all night
Telling you stories, pulling poems from between
The shafts of moonlight
I’m down to a hoarse whisper but if I pause
You lean forward, lips pressing against my skin
How can I resist, you pull the words from me
Like drawing water from a well.

You hold me between your legs
The night holds us like a third lover
And I hold you up like a candle
My tongue a spinning wheel
Weaving the treads of you into tapestries
Adorning the cathedral walls of our small room
Luminous, glowing over sweat and skin
And I can’t help thinking that it’s only you
That can make me beautiful.

17

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 20, 2014 by beautifulimposter

There are echoes

Faint traces

I swear

I just saw the curve

Of her breast

In the smoke

Leaving my lips

Still kissing.

Skin is memory

Rumpled bedclothes

Her hair

Woven into my beard

Tapestry tangled

She tasted of apples

So in autumn

Every juicy bite

Becomes the apex

Of her thighs.

Phonographic memory

Her voice is

On my FM dial

Grooves cut vinyl

Every single fucking song

Her the needle

Playing my spine

Melody architecture

Spinning Escher staircases

Right round baby

Back to a girl

In my room

Wearing nothing but sunlight.