a fool for that cunning-linguist
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i turn away but he’s closer than i think and i miss my moment, clashing noisily against him instead. i’m momentarily stunned and about to mutter an apology but he’s already passed, leaving me standing – just for a moment - feeling slightly foolish and strangely exposed without quite understanding why.
"in the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were it bore not beauty's name; ..."
i’m moving again, feeling all hammered shut. closed up ... wondering how open i might have been before to feel this tightly clenched now ... still fearing my naked transparency yet loving it for making the pleas that i cannot ...
"but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slandered with a bastard shame ..."
... they’re not pretty. not entreaties. and roses ! ... i am far past wanting roses.
"for since each hand hath put on nature's power, fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face ..."
like that thing that twists in your gut when you’re desperate for a certain type of touch. a kind of weed that needs not much more than darkness and a tiny bit of encouragement ...
"sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower, but is profaned, if not lives in disgrace ..."
trailing crumbs that only a certain kind of dog can ever smell, the fated me moves quietly through the space, leaden with uneasiness. another thought begins but i berate it. a stranger follows my form with a studied interest that dies along with his first glance into my unsettling eyes ...
"therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem ..."
the seediness suits me, and that thought makes me smile. i deflect the inevitable approach of one of them ... swarming, dizzy things, like bugs, they think smiling beautiful and wouldn’t like to be taught otherwise ...
"at such who not born fair no beauty lack,sland'ring creation with a false esteem ..."
he’s outside as i leave. something jerks in me. i stumble slightly. the pavement is wet. for a moment, i am certain i will fall. my heart slowly calms itself as i look up to see an empty street.
"yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, that every tongue says beauty should look so ..."
he misunderstood, then. sometimes they do. i slide back between the doors into the womb-like darkness. to the place where they can’t see it. but i’m scared suddenly. empty of something vital. turning on my heel, i leave the echoes of plastic interaction in my wake and run. heads turn as i break their silent code. curiosity or just plain damned kindness i don’t care ...
"how oft, when thou my music music play'st upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
with thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st the wiry concord that mine ear confounds, ..."
space. air. darkness. silence. i’ve already decided which world i want. trick is in staying put.
"do i envy those jacks that nimble leap to kiss the tender inward of thy hand, ..."
he knows now. standing still. but moving. making me look away before i’m dizzy. “with what ?” ... is he mocking me ? ... “dizzy with what ?” ... but his voice is soft now. careful. tending to my shock at having spoken aloud. “i ...”. my hand goes to my temple, shielding my face, rubbing as if trying to prompt the thoughts “ ... didn’t mean to say that” ...
"whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, at the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! ..."
he’s laughing now. laughing !.. can i bear this ?. i turn from him, pretend interest in my shoes. as i do i feel his hand brush against my spine, his intended touch aborted by my abrupt dismissal. mute and stupid ... again wrong somehow, i stand my unintended ground, having decided no mere action of mine could matter now anyway ...
"to be so tickled they would change their state and situation with those dancing chips ..."
... or needs to.
"o'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, making dead wood more blest than living lips ..."
he wrote this, after all ... well, at least he would have. had he known. this reassures me, yet it does not quiet my shaking. as my own hands cannot, his warmth behind me quickly stills me. so quickly that i marvel of his taking but a single step to do so, and ....
“ since saucy jacks so happy are in this, give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss ...”
the words stumble from my lips aloud. unannounced. uninvited. unwelcomed. he is still, stung by my fracturing the darkness as i have. i move to leave. shunned. cold. disgusted. i am stilled by his single word ... “more “
“th'expense of spirit in a waste of shame is lust in action, and till action, lust ... “
he changes. with neither word nor action, he changes. his shadow envelops me. my voice deepens. i sense his hands before i feel them ...
“is perjured, murd'rous, bloody, full of blame, savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust; ...”
more laughter. still sinister, but now the welcome kind ...
“enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, past reason hunted, and no sooner had, ...”
i feel him. eventually. not soft, as poetry would insist the heroes’ touches ...
“past reason hated as a swallowed bait on purpose laid to make the taker mad...”
... not gentle. there are no questions here ... only maybe what alter to kneel by for such worship ? ... some random mailbox in this blindingly unerotic suburban street ? ... so what ? ... why don’t you think of a good reason why not to close my knees around his beautiful face while he listens ...
“mad in pursuit and in possession so, had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;... “
... and anyway, this beautiful violation only feels good because it’s so utterly complete ...
“a bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe, before, a joy proposed, behind, a dream ...”
something to think about later ... how hard you came all over his face like that ... and how he held his mouth up against you the whole time ... drinking you in ... making you cry ... making you admit it ...
“ all this the world well knows yet none knows well, to shun the heaven that leads men to this hell “.
note: with my sincere thanks to the king of lust himself, mr william shakespeare, for the sonnet quotes (in italics throughout). and also to jeremyg, for the moral ... err, immoral ? support ...
mig. XX.
... sister that found shakespeare erotic, i would so be able to simultaneously shag and respect her". 