The Three Faces of Eve

-Butterflies of Love-

Velvet butterfly's brushing their gossamer wings,
tremulous fluttering's inside my soul,
lifting from the hearth to the whole;
I feel them rise from the pit,
swirling through incandescent skies,
filling my heart with the warmth of your breath,
slipping like silk ribbons caught in a breeze,
the gentle ease, of all you have become to me.
Tickling sensations,
these trembling emanations of light,
surging through these rice paper gates,
erupting upon my face with a smile.
A brilliant star, in joyous release.
I sat in blue corners once,
masked in the mourning of some mottled solemnity,
wondering what it was that you were to me,
seeking that which was before my eyes,
before my heart, a chase inside,
blind to its light, in the depths of its hide.
To cease the search, and in being, simply love.
To curtail the endless courtship, the chase,
the hunt from above, and in risen heart,
watch the doe bound within the open meadow,
free from her forest retreat,
the supple greeting of each loving gracious fellow,
the swallow tail swimming in the breeze,
kissed between the sunlight's balmy phlox,
and the backdrop of those distant oaken trees.
Love steals my heart, and floods the plain,
and on my tongue and in my ear, i hear
this gentle wind whispering your name.
The fluttering diaphanous flight,
of these butterflies of love,
caught between the chrysalis,
and your blessed light, above.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013

 
-The Painted Stroke-

To squeeze the dappled hues
upon your alabaster skin,
the silken sheen of rosy cheeks
welcoming them in.

Ribbons of dribbled colour
glissade across your back,
down your slender sides, they drip
slipping in the cracks.

To paint a rainbows arc
across your breasts with my tongue,
and watch each rosy ripple rise
encircled, as you cum.
 
The palette of your belly
where we mix these fervid shades
to finger paint your delta
in a smooth slick moistened haze.

A tableaux of each pigment
mixed and mingled in the crush
salaciously the paint is licked
from off the sodden brush.

Loves muse, she moans delightfully
beneath the artists hand,
and shudders to the suckled touch
her mounted easel's stand.
 
Crescendo's in the fiery tease
of passions thrusting craze
the painted stroke, a masterpiece,
of spasmed frenzied waves.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013


-Nothing to Say-

How fickle the fates, how fractured the time... For only yesterday I wrote, 'You know, I got to a stage in my life, where it wasn't that I could afford to write full time, rather, I could no longer afford not to!' ... And yet today, there are no words, nothing left to say.

except...

I will no longer bleed for the masses, not a single fucking word will issue from this desanguinated heart. I will not slit my throat to satisfy the aesthetic sensibilities of those who seek to mortify the souls of poets for their own vicarious artful manipulations. The lusting malevolence of the soulless Nosferatu. Sucking the tortured words of desperate hearts, rent for the writing. Licking upon the bloody remnants, spewed upon the page. The broken hearted rage of unrequited love. Bloody scratching's, pushed through fleshless fingers, hollow as a heartless bitch, the leaching pitch and woe, of marrow streaked ink, bleeding out the stink, for the dagger holding crew. Fuck you! Not a fucking drop, not a drip, from the tip of this featherless quill. The shaven nib, a needle in the eye, for all those that sought to see me die.

© Richard Michael Parker 2013