penetralia: a cycle I. penetralia the wisdom of lovers is kept to themselves. shelves full of memories, melodies unremitting, permitting a shared breath, a spared death of hearts heated to the point of fusion, con or pro, infusing life with the very mettle of the magma of the moment melted between warm fleshes sheened with a thirst that overcomes the manners of the manors of our stations. forgetting nothing. remembering it all as we fall to our awakening. or catch it, sliding in a subtle curve that swerves to bend and wend and blend and spend precious moments held in an intoxication. a purification of wet heat, sweet and regent. seasons of doubt cast out for a solstice of dreams, an equinox of essence when the unity gives impunity for the trespass we kindle, spindled on the point of no return. II. a penitent lover the violation of the temple of your beauty is sin enough for me to bear. accept my confession and my penance. over and over again. as you have asked and I have accepted as my fate. and my destiny. with pleasure second only to that which I must give in penitent penetration. III. a trick of the light there was that shift of a moment when I saw through the veils that shielded the ethereal of the woman you are and always will be even when clothed and looking off in the distance. and I was gratified you let slip your guard for me and showed that which I know no one else has ever seen. even you, in the mirror. IIII. roses I have seen enough roses for this lifetime. blooms doomed to wilt under the weight of their own fragrance and beauty, for they have no hope to rise as high as you to the heavens. and I am but the most fortunate of bees, tasting nectars reserved by chance and happenstance. V. Odin taut thoughts communicating to me in essence pure, unsure of anything outside of the sphere of our contact, contracting fiber and sinew, and through sounds barely audible to all but the listener who shares the unsubtle tremors when the world falls down and reassembles itself for our pleasure and privilege and purpose. for we are the gods in this creation, however temporary our omnipotence, however shallow our insight into anything but the way you move your hips. VI. time and space in this moment in this place in this jointed time in space I am yours to command, sand in the furnace to make the looking glass of your soul, whole and polished to reflect the perfect union of time and space. VII. summoner I call the fire in amomancies bright and proud, loud curses cast at forgotten religions, faded and jaded by pretenders paraded and serenaded when their forged credentials hammered flat the steel of dreams into mockeries of love. an excalibur and a stormbringer, cursed blessings perhaps handed to mortals to make us the playthings of capricious deities. for in these passions we become the players in the play of pain, stained by our fluids and rude foods that fuel our sensory psalms, alms paid in pennies and penetrations into the womb of our hearts, starting from the end and working our way back against the maelstrom. the road back is black, not yellow brick, and we stick to the tar, far from home and roaming in tight circles as we miscalculate fate and have nothing left but the blind vision of a childhood long forgotten. but we will wear the colours of our chosen throne in time, prime fires to the base of the burdening stones that block our chosen ways for days, to dis/couer/rage us into surrender to shadows we beat already ten thousand times in night folds you gave to me as favour for these words, expecting hymns and threnodies and elegies eternal. and I will keep my oaths, even those spoken in barter for a kiss. copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv). |
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