Oh, Wondrous Maidens

Today's theme: women, she, her, femininity.

Sorry, no pictures. Every man's vision of feminine beauty is very personal, anyway.

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A Poem Aloft And Forgone
-------------------------

In those dreams, in my dreams of her, I presumed
To write this forgotten poem. And I might
Have woken to draw again the words. But such
Was false. Those verbs and nouns and
Tender adjectives failed me and my senility.

Oh, I told her the parables of un-described and
Indescribable verse. But she retreated to her intellect.
She spoke of the substance of my mathematics. She
Spoke of tangled truth coiled anew in polyhedra.
And then I grasped her beauty, and I kissed
Her imagined mouth, a tangential nexus once puckered.
Then the pleasure unknown to my reality
Overcame us both. And I recited the poem
That is now aloft and forgone. I recited
The tragedy of solitude, the tragedy of concealment
Soon denied, soon to be depicted and questionable.

+++++++++++

She Flies
-----------

She flies towards the horizon, flies through
My infatuation. For, I see her see me. Then
I turn to hide. Then I run upwards to the sky.
And I meet her within our agony. She
Talks of love and embarrassment. I too am
Shunned by the vague thoughts. And thus
We become better than forever. Oh, there
We fall back into the maze.

She flies as her precognition once pondered.
She stares upon the dawn, and I am there again.
For, my eyes have altered their colors. She
And I grasp at our distance, and so we
Come together in our parting. And somehow
I forget all my dreams about her. But is my
Carelessness becoming the sad rectangles,
Becoming the wings aloft upon our perception,
Rising, flying into our thirsty ceilings?

========

The Obsession Of Madmen
-------------------------

I retreated; then I succumbed to her, this dream.
I met her at dawn. Never before did I embrace
Any other particularity forgotten. She was inevitable,
And she was my salve. For I remembered my arousal;
And yet I neglected my conversation. I gazed
Sideways then obtained such sweet exit.
Did I distract her? Did I tell her of my flavor?
And the darkness of this morning, it repressed us.
It told us of syllables; it showed us these photons.
Did love justify its sleep devoid of beginnings?
I retreated, although I hoped, I hoped that soon
In futures woken I will encounter her again, then
Oh, perhaps I will, then, then infuse us both with this
Fantasy, with our souls invoked. For she is, she
Was the obsession of madmen, was the prolonged
And hindered truth, was the epitome of image.
But I longed for those dawns of frozen concerns,
Of fluttered breath we both had assumed was symmetrical.

..................

A Face
-------

A face transforms its diagonals (into abbreviation
And convex madness). Each eye denied its sight;
For they saw the spell dissipate wondrously, saw such
Virtue inherent in nothingness. And they were placed
Vertically.
The mouth confronted this glow beyond it. Surely,
It whispered something regarding its concern.
And those lips enclosed the final voice without any
Other tongue or teeth.
Ah, the nose observed finality inside swallowed scent.
The cheeks, chin, and brow
All refused to imply their dimensions. Although
In this parallax is a scalene shell.
And then her hair,
It was transparent and yet still it was clangorous.
Such strange strands betraying mammals, they
Obscured the beauty of entangled irises, of breath
Defined by its topology.
Her face transforms
Its perpendicular thoughts into awareness. And
I forgot her. But I long yet again for that geometry,
If only to contemplate it, despite
My particular procrastination.

**************

The Angel Of Strange Convexity
-------------------------------------

And so the images of beauty's imperfections
Excrete themselves from the breath of this
Spirit's lips unseen yet unimagined and aglow.
For she, the angel of strange convexity, is
Her psychosis, is her tantrum cringing, is
This abrupt and folded persona of depiction,
Is this smooth and moist admiration
For my own creativity detached, putrid,
And gazed into -- it is radiating inward.
For she, the forgotten virgin of angry love,
She is trembling somehow vainly, is
Sipping her desires and then remaining
Contrite in her expression, in her spit
That rejoices in such sacredness of understanding.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

What She Stared Upon
----------------------------

She gazed upwards at the vastness,
At the emptiness of our firmament.
She gazed into the shadows she made,
Seeing finitude and hope finally achieved.
She looked so into her closed eyes,
Finding the truth among the wind,
Among the containment of nothingness.
And she knew the lines were drawn,
Were a web of labyrinths intertwined,
Forming what she stared upon, what
She had forgotten of these silken edges.

ooooooooooooo

Anima
---------

I turned, as did she. And I shed this shadow.
I searched for the shapes of her soul.
I hid within reality dark and imagined.
And she wished, as I, to arrive here.
For she too was derived from pencil,
From pages beginning to somehow tear.
And, ha, maybe someday she will be born,
Will come as the succubus to save me.
But, yes, she is now of the flatness and alone
And hidden by reality;
And she turns, shedding the shadow,
Searching for the shapes of her soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Then Invisible
-----------------

Brilliantly lit,
She gasped and spoke of her halo.
But such triviality was shadowed,
Was behind and beyond this spirit
Of black then white then invisible.

Brilliantly lit was she again,
As we stared into her voice,
As we turned and spun ever,
Transmuting into purple (her irises).
For beautiful is this oblivion,
Is this world in which
She only exists to observe,
Only exists to somehow imagine.


############

Not Her
-----------

I am not her,
Although I have dreamt of her.
I am not her,
Although she dressed in the blackness, as I.

She tasted the poison* and found it pleasant.
She sang the very song she detested.

And through the mostly real hallucination
I saw her, I loved her,
I took her soul and held it (but apathetically).

She was as my child,
And this she did not know.

Oh, I was never her
(And she not I),
But once, but when,
But where I slept .... and hid again.

*(The coffee, the wine, the aspirin, and such metaphor)


^^^^^^^^^^

Alas (A Lass)
-----------------

... And she evaporated.
For from these insignificant atoms
Of information malformed,
I could only guess that I was certain
That, indeed, she was once as I saw her:
Ideal, sacred, my own soul’s virtue
Intertwined with hers
Someplace above our mundane
And seemingly important, but truly vile,
Stratum (of substance, of solidity and space).

Alas, I was to speak to her through her
... And through her eyes.
Alas, I was to find her forgotten, this
Moment failing quickly, falling
Suddenly into loss, never resurrected, not
To ever be complimented, not to be
Achieved. No, she had evaporated, dissolved
Into nothing but my desires lamented, into only
Hope that she might have once saw me as well
Upon this continuum sadly
Only subdivided, only sub-divine.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%

This Apparition
-------------------

This apparition in fuchsia - - in hot-pink softened only
By our infusion of psychic insulin,
By this terror resolved into a deepest hypocrisy - -
She, it, tastes our lust, and salivates.
She, it, will have deceived us into worshipping her,
The villainess of hate and love joined into conformity
For its own sake, for the sake of ignorance:
Our god.

Yes, we have fallen in love with her,
This demon and angel in lace,
This divine spirit of self-deception
And savagery towards all innocence.
For she is quite beautiful, of course.

For she is everything we have aspired to achieve,
To become, to create out of our hubris.
She is our own repression, the final destruction
Of all imagination, the same fantastic creativity of
Our souls which brought her into being originally
Out of nothing but our hope so misplaced.

//////////////////

I Drew Her Soul
--------------------

I drew her soul upon tracing-paper.
I shaded what I sketched in blue,
Though her soul was a red so sad,
So bloody and sour.
I talked to the stream of binary
Emanating from her electronic mouth.
This eased my pain somewhat.
I stroked her clear hair, as clear as glass.
And that hair shattered and glowed.
For I sang to her eyes in faint hope
That she would finally see just what,
Just what exactly felled my grand mind
In this forest of numbers and shadow.
But, alas, I could only ask her to step out
Of her box of illusion.
If she complied I would become aroused
By reality turned into the torus.
Rings become knots become points become
The composition of the sphere
That she gazes into to discover
Perfection beyond me.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

(Warning. This last poem has a dirty word...)

This Withered Thought
----------------------

Her ghost smeared me, and I became round.
And I forgot her, as I fucked her, as I
Protruded into the spiral that was myself.
I am now a spheroid, a pearl, of convex
Emptiness, of hollow knots implied. Yes,
One was zero, one was two. But zero, it
Was not twice one. But I was. I was
Diffused and humiliated. But she was sour.
She was lost but yet alluring. And
I stabbed the simple ground. It therefore
Grew hungry. But she did not rise forth
To caress my uncertainty. She only flew
Above the window, above her vanity. She
Only remained forgotten. Ha. I thus emerged
From a callous exoskeleton. I otherwise
Conceived of my suffering. Then I partook,
Surely, in this withered thought coiled into
Its demands, into her desires
Imperceptibly described.


----

Thanks,
Leroy Quet