Parisian Tides Kiss The Inlets Of Their Wrists~

She called herself Mercy

her body like a sovereign scrap of gun metal

she stepped over the edge of the Eiffel Tower

into a holy superstition bloated on lawless constitutions

dipped with biscuits into a cup of espresso at Cafe De Flore

while he played her lacey borders with his fingertips as if she were a golden harp

a covenant to dishonor

struck her kindhearted anthems of like chords of discord

aside for generational vanity

overturned her plate of berries

as children sang like tortured bluebirds in gutter clothes

their footsteps whispers across the broken streets

 

He called himself Irony

his sins falling just a breath short of being evil

as he bent into his scholarly definitions of sorrow

seized by the broken effigies of Bacchus

on the yellow parchments

turning to dust

as he confessed his dark arousals to the timeless

and obscure injustice

of a marigold pressed between his ribs;

as a child he'd fancied an angel put the blossoms inside of him

before it walked away

it's belly full

and it's wings encrusted with seashells bought by Lillith in a dream

from an antique shop in Quimper in 1968

but being a man with crushed loyalties and stained lips from mulberry wine

he knew there was no merit to the repentance of him being him

and he slammed the book against the concrete wall

and rekindled an old flame

unashamed

 

Mercy licked the crab meat and butter

from his fingertips

her tongue a ruby flame

searing his unique prints until his skin was flawless;

the waiter,

startled by the drips of spherical flame

popping on the tip of her tongue

dropped the plate of empty oyster shells

and fell back into a sea of tranquil mythological consolations

where a boy could taste the disappointments of the father

as the mother, delighted,

enlightened by the finer aspects of cheap wine

came to the conclusion it be best to hit the roads of a better future

and hopped into her tiny car with nothing but a purse filled with tobacco

a compact in shade of fair

and a tube of red lipstick

 

Irony winced at the sound of crushing porcelain hitting golden laced tiles

his central nervous system flipped back into an alcove of silver belt buckles

the skin on his back shivered

illuminating childhoods spent hidden in closets away from big men

with refined hands in leather gloves that never saw a day of honest work;

his lover leaned across the lace cloth of the table

rescued his spirit with a kiss pressed against  his old wound 

centered in his palm

stroked the locks of golden hair away from the skin

braided

with divine scarring

from his temples

and Irony smiled at the man across the table

whispered how he'd pledge his strength to him if this time it was forever

 

In a corner of Au Diable des Lombards

an old man in a black coat sat in the shadows

eating souls bumping against his lips with the atoms in the air

drinking a fine Sauvignon;

he looked at the woman who was not quite human at all

as she leaned deep

into the fragments of the politician

who would be decapitated

in sunshine

by her allure and unforgiving nature

he gazed at the man of golds

and scars

eating seared lamb cutlets

as the cross lay across his back like a shade

his lover soothing indents of his history with blue eyes

swirled through

with love

and the old man shook a Gitanes from his pack and put it between his burgundy lips

he closed his book of compositions

strode like a bound willow weeping past Mercy

past Irony

and opened his ribs to the waiter in their stead

who fell through with gratitude into the blessings of Bacchus

 

The old man in the black coat returned to the hotel Sorbonne around midnight

and wrote his songs

drank poetry from a cup of lavender tea

and left Paris on a morning flight

to Cairo

 

 

copyright:2009vssmd/pa.inc

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

excerpt from . . . .

 

Author's Note

~inspired by dinner in the company of fine gentleman of literary grace~completely focused on Leonard Cohen's eyes~

Reviews

[Nancy S.]

Your characters breathe with the air of your word choices... You have a flare for the descriptive, emotional packed and shedding the mundane.

To anyone who thinks poetry is merely flowers and rhyme, I dare you to read a book by VictoriaSelene Skye Deme, and learn the versatility of the genre at the risk that once you read her art, you will not know how to exist with out it.~

[Maurice]

A very intense story, rich with sensuous images. Magnificent.

[TAO]

Goddess, somehow I don't quite think that I have the scope to handle this one. It could simply be because I'm tired as Sin working OT during the graveyard shift on a Sunday night.

I would mention my favorite part of this piece, but I think Jamessmiles beat me to the punch. It's a given, for me, because the Dark Ones are who I favor, and this old man in a black coat that eats souls was the image that reset the entire feel of the poem for me (and I think, caused me to understand it better). I agree with Jamessmiles; the rendition is nothing short of a masterpiece, and perhaps greater even than that. We appreciate there is a soul and mind like yours gracing the pages of writerscafe and sating our appetites for something...enchanting, and just surpassing remarkable.

[.]

God-this is really-really awesome imagery!!!

{i always read your work out loud--gorgeous!!!}

"In a corner of Au Diable des Lombards
an old man in a black coat sat in the shadows
eating souls bumping against his lips with the atoms in the air
drinking a fine Sauvignon;"
{I like this & the last verse too...}

This entire poem is an imagistic masterpiece---I Love It!!!

james:-)

[miSS LEaf]

this is epic, with fine details, like a novellete, a rewarding reading indeed ~L

[Ed Hart]

i didn't know i could hold my breath that long

[Dream Weaver]

What a delightful read. I love the descriptive
characters you've created. The flow is
excellent and the story is well told. A dandy
of a write Selene....