Monday, September 18, 2006


lucky number 13 at daniel's place!!
hosting an array of poems by poets within the sphere, but here's the catch: each poem features the number 13 or has just as many lines. daniel places all of these poems within the transition from summer to fall. and beautifully.
thanks daniel!


Anonymous said...

Thank you, Katy!

Twas a pleasure to host. Too bad that there weren't 13 of us, though... :)

Anonymous said...

Erotica Dulcinea

Your form is silhouetted by the candle as you remove the garments of our repression, revealing-stealing the light as it etiolates my mind and body. The liquid glow of your charms oozes-fuses-muses with the ether to storm the parapets of my restraint. The all encompassing viscous sensuality immobilises-ignobilises my reason and your LSD-trail movements mesmerise-tantalise. I am drunk with desire.

I approach with enfeebled limbs through the shadows of your magnificence to pay homage at the silken altar of Gaia. You lay as the Venus of Urbino defying mere mortals to imbibe. Maenads frolic in the maelstrom of my ardor. We must... With enraptured eyes I drink up the vision of the lush foothills of your primeval nakedness. I slowly scale your Mountain of Venus pausing again and again to explore-implore. Can I, may I, have enough?

With directed yet curiously disembodied hands and tongue, I alight upon the delicious Pearl on the Step, gently cradled within folds of glorious carnality. As soft a caress and effect as the gentle embrace of God-light upon Bernini's St. Theresa. I envelop like a mist your quivering thighs and heaving life, scattering-spattering glistening droplets of passion, beading-kneading amidst the stately sweep of the velvet expanse that is you.

Disparate-desperate limbs touch and entwine, clinging within a merging crescendo of lascivious combustion. We ascend from the depths of banality to derive our mingled quintessence. I melt, we meld, confuse senses; I touch the colour of my sins of your flesh, I hear the taste of your sea-spray glow, I see the aroma of exquisite and pungent lubricity, I smell the texture of your vital vortex which you brandish with Dionysian confidence.

I taste, nay, I devour the sounds of the creation of your most alluring ecstasies. I nourish in a feast of your parted and yielding lips. A Klimt Kiss writhing enchanted between hands. The Kiss it overflows the abyss that is your being and incites-invites an ever bubbling spring of vivacity. Bells sound in your pleasure, not in the orderly peal of a dirge, but in a wonderfully mad Quasimodo frenzy of flailing phallo-clappers within vulvic-domes.

Waves embark on their cleansing journey from oceans deep in your ego, only to meet in a mellowing-bellowing cataclysm betwixt the black beaches of your insatiable libido. Your heavy lidded eyes gaze out with a piercing erotic phlogiston igniting-exciting all whom you survey. I am enslaved by the cadence of your staccato breath, anticipating-extricating the copious libation to come. Cry havoc! Let loose the Syrens of Ulysses, the Harpys of Jason, the Sacred, the Profane.

The ever-racing tidal bore of love's effluvia, geyser-like, bedews the inner firmament of your Elysium meadows. We swoon in a cascade of Icarus feathers, falling, yet warmed, as the body is the mind is the soul is as one, converging nebulous, yet defined. I live, I die, I live yet again confined to virtual Laocoon penile servitude, aching for a multiplicity such as yours. Can it be? Should it be? I am Charon on the Styx; always the ferry never the fare, always Alexander never Bucephalus.

The heavens pale in the radiance of your omnipotence, the Gods weep, Clotho drops a stitch, calm befalls the creation, and mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of my love. In time our apparition slowly disappears with a curious perfume and most melodious twang. O! Aphrodite on Olympus high, grant me my most deserved manumission. Hark! Is that harbinger a Woolf at my door Orlando?

I have wallowed in the bliss of my Dulcinea, I will live but to love her.