Real old but brought to mind by the hot stuff posted earlier. Funny how
there is this tendency to equal sensuosity with sexuality. I'd love to
write something about the textures of a chocolate sundae. Until that
magical day, this. If the accents get through I'll be very surprised.
L'APRÈS-SOIR D'UN FAUNE D'ÂGE MÛR
An unforgettable voice, archly whispering
through the wires and the nerves,
summons reminders after far too long
of September nights and darkness
and schedules that must be met.
I think I know who you are she teases.
You have a tickly mustache, and a great laugh,
and glasses that steam up on train platforms.
And I seem to remember an evening like that:
little street kids watching them, trashtalking
from across the tracks: the middle-aging man
holding in his arms this fashion-defying
Rubensesque-lovely woman:
he can draw her to himself,
her breasts pressing him like an electric pillow,
and feel the shock of her embrace,
smell the sweet oils of her long dark hair,
kiss the smoothness of her throat,
trace the shape of her lips with his fingers,
see behind the floating smile and her closed eyes,
and savor the taste of her tongue,
swirling in his mouth like hot cinnamon.
And when her train comes and is gone,
he repeats to himself Keats' lines
about a nightingale vision:
holding it in his dreams
until called awake by her voice.
--
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Kenneth Wolman kenwolman.wordpress.com
Abuse of power comes as no surprise--Jenny Holzer
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