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Wanting My Dead Heroine V. 2

Millions of strands, perfect shape, coffee-brown, curls for play,
ecstatically-sharp passion with big eyes which were calm but so powerful.
Her power pulls all of me like fur from huskies into a vacuum.

She loved Respighi, louder than all the other sounds. I love loud.
She wrote to music. I would have shivered and written with her.
We would have moved our hearts to the music and locked eyes.
Pines of Rome. She of the Pines would have been my lover.
I would have licked every part of her. I wear droplets
as I air-conduct the Pines with perfect knowledge, institutionalized spirits.
I want to mix batches of Roma with her, making her shake tight curls,
watch her eyes as she smoothly places both palms on my cheeks
with these tasty fingers that meander in the most affluent way.
Tough fingers that know all there is.

She loved Neruda. She was marvelous with surreal etchings.
Surreal is what I hunt for, even when my dark, wet, wool blanket
has me stuck in bundles on floors who don’t care for me
and sneak stabs of shark teeth into my tough fat when I finally sleep.
She would have hung from the fan and sprinkled poems on me,
blowing kisses and shaking her tight curls, laughing mouth open.

Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.
Women who are all about writing, painting are the ones that drive sexuality
that is deep in my soul, unmovable and unstoppable, always-moving trains.

She killed herself and I know I would have saved her, resuscitated her sharp eyes.
I would have saved her for me. She would have written for me – Deep, hard poems.
She would have held me and blown in my ears while I soaked in her words.
Women who love art, they are my chocolate mousse.
They charge me back to breathing air that keeps me moving and dreaming.

I wish she were next to me now. I would stay on earth for her.
I cannot ever write again for she has said everything that is stuck in my heart.
When I die, I will go where she is. I will search forever.

***

Still sappy, this is a revised version of the original. It is Wednesday again and time to share the experience of One Shot Poetry Week 36! These Wednesdays come along so often!

 

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  1. #1 by brian on March 8, 2011 - 10:53 pm

    naw, not sappy. i like it…though i hope its fiction and you write again, but once that muse passes ah it can be so hard…you would have written beautifully together i am sure…

    • #2 by Carl on March 8, 2011 - 11:16 pm

      Thank you so much for your comment, Brian! I think I’ll keep going until the well is dry…

  2. #3 by dasuntoucha on March 8, 2011 - 11:26 pm

    …Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.
    Women who are all about writing, painting are the ones that drive sexuality
    that is deep in my soul, unmovable and unstoppable, always-moving trains

    …I hear you…these type of women are definitely something aren’t they? Thoroughly enjoyed this piece.

    • #4 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 7:23 am

      Thank you so much for your comment!

  3. #5 by kolembo on March 9, 2011 - 1:26 am

    I like it. A poets cry for the death of his muse…where has the beauty gone?

    …Pines of Rome. She of the Pines would have been my lover….

    and a great line this!

    • #6 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 7:22 am

      Thank you for your comment!

  4. #7 by Claudia on March 9, 2011 - 10:35 am

    oh my – this was a tight, emotional write carl…loved the..She would have hung from the fan and sprinkled poems on me… wow – what an image – really like this one – a lot!!

    • #8 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 9:09 pm

      Oh, thank you so much, Claudia! You are so kind!

  5. #9 by dustus on March 9, 2011 - 10:53 am

    “Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.” The speaker shouldn’t blame himself….. The lengths the speaker goes to, wow. What I thought was really cool was how the work took on a Nerudaesque tone and then the speaker reveals his muse’s fondness for poetry. An artist emulating another artist to win the affections of a beloved. Deep write.

    • #10 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 9:08 pm

      Thank you so much, Adam! I appreciate your comment.

  6. #11 by Eric on March 9, 2011 - 11:20 am

    Not to sound self-absorbed, but this reminds me of the tribute I wrote to Sylvia Plath recently. (Maybe it’s the whole dead heroine thing?)

    Rich imagery, Carl!

    • #12 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 9:07 pm

      Thank you, Eric. Maybe we wouldn’t be so distraught if they lived to the ripe age of 90 and died in the nursing home…

  7. #13 by Anita Wakeham on March 9, 2011 - 12:43 pm

    Wow, excellent write, great visionary, it stole me away.

    Anita.

    http://anitaspoetry.blogspot.com/2011/03/dark-desire.html

    • #14 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 9:06 pm

      Anita, thank you. Your words are very kind!

  8. #15 by lori on March 9, 2011 - 3:55 pm

    “…sneak stabs of shark teeth into my tough fat when I finally sleep…” What a line! Your words are strung together beautifully, and I, too, hope you write again πŸ™‚

    • #16 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 9:05 pm

      Thank you, Lori. I appreciate your comment. I think I love writing too much to quit. πŸ™‚

  9. #17 by Evelyn on March 9, 2011 - 8:46 pm

    “Women of letters suck me in with habits that make them sick like me.
    Women who are all about writing, painting are the ones that drive sexuality
    that is deep in my soul, unmovable and unstoppable, always-moving trains.”
    amazing and stirring paragraph.

    • #18 by Carl on March 9, 2011 - 8:57 pm

      It was too honest and I thought I’d taken it out! πŸ™‚

  10. #19 by miss ash tuesday on March 10, 2011 - 2:31 pm

    Wow. This moved me.

    • #20 by Carl on March 10, 2011 - 8:41 pm

      Thank you for your comment. I am grateful if a piece is moving. It adds a sense of purpose.

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