The One In Ten

The One In Ten

A Poem by Amorette Duvannes

The evolution of a girl's sexuality from a very young age, tending all the way up until adolescence - seeing as I cannot account for any further. And then, Eve and Eden and female condemnation.

"I have seen the best of you, and I have seen the worst of you, and I choose both."

At six
The hot-jam paste of six, 
The German sechs,
The time of the fattened horned mammal 
The faded companion swells the breadth
To an army of men.
Men, with their sculpted knees,
The nails left like rat waste
Onto the floor of Auschwitz.
Men, boys, raised by wolves,
An untameable, messy breed
For my umber-tinted
Glazed to perfect, darling little mind.

For the four
Beside the vow of succession,
Into the deride of haste:
The fleshed-out Golden Gate
Sloped between the athlete's marker,
Grows sodden in the back garden,
The vegetable stickler combusts with
The daring laser attacking like
An alive toad in a Luna effort,
The gut of insects 
Within their quiet soothe. 

At the very top of the clock,
The clock-stop, c**k-block
(So they say), the fear kicks in 
Like a boiled honey Werther's
Antsing like a rank thing,
Waking the want, 
Making the tumultuous override,
The blood-spew, feminine stew,
The heel of Fate kicked into the spine
And the Apollo of your vision
Becomes a Wide Pertain,
Fishing out the lice 
From your belt-buckle teeth.

The hours move a lot slower when
You're not gold enough for them to wait
To flamboy in you. You are not riches enough
With the holes in your gritty, grey skin
The way you sink, floundering, blacked out
In maize -- the real yell
Of masculine burst 
Breaks into you like a seed.
Wondering like an apple in fall,
The balloon of beauty
Crevasses into the manhunt 
I've made of men, the one-in-ten.

Sixteen, the door-man calls
An undercurrent to the door,
The violent passion of the idle succumb.
The realism drifts like rocks wedged
Into the dry-sand of the human abyss.
Some of the days are good.
Like fine, rich wine
Contemplating the heady shade of 
The Morning Star's reborn, the red on red,
Of the dead, dead. Some of the days
Spark s**t, as if the soil ruin we should
Be accustomed to by now and by large. 
Maybe this is Eve's want.
I am tempted by the lore of men
For the sake of one woman's cotton frame,
The wine stales it's sales and the blood rips
Through the open-wound of my lips.

The undeniable potential, the blessed of this
Majestic blue mist of dreams, is the Man,
So fit-to-burst, no accommodation for the like of trust,
Let the serpent lie because He had enough venom
For the shaking of his sins,
And the woman let the reptile
Curl into a swirl on her breast,
And bitten into misfortune, 
For the areola uproar of her titan woes,
The dream peels like an unhappening fruit
Of reality, the deep suppress 
For the eye of God. 

© 2014 Amorette Duvannes

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I did not understand the concept of this poem. Could you explain it to me please?

Posted 10 Years Ago

This comment has been deleted by the poster.
Amorette Duvannes

10 Years Ago

Sure! I hope you don't mind my explaining this to you step-by-step. It's not a condescension thing, .. read more
Simran Kewlani

10 Years Ago

Thank you and you're most welcome. Your thoughts are really deep. Keep writing. :)

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1 Review
Added on February 20, 2014
Last Updated on February 20, 2014
Tags: poetry, poem, poems, war, peace, love, philosophy, adolescence, socialism, ideology, religion


Amorette Duvannes
Amorette Duvannes

Oh, aren't I silly - I'm just so silly. more..