Rage, rage against the dying of the light. - Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night. / Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
– Dylan Thomas

Hidden Aspects

She steps the practiced step of a princess,
not by birth, but trained, with thoughts
contained in viscous mists of hairspray
and fragrances, leaving the depth
and breadth of other orbits unplumbed.
Ornamental and well-ornamented,
her arms swing fine arcs,
finishing with the supple swish of elbows
cleverly over-extended,
festooning her image for glances fetched.
Coifed short and neat, her yellow hair falls,
according to fashion’s trend,
and lips though thin are penciled full,
as with every line or pock found unpleasant,
all is secreted with a touch.
Hers is a face and figure in a state
of endless flux. And so laced in the trappings
of custom and class is she, one wonders
what she does with her naked frame
once alone and undone. Does she diffuse
into some shapeless mass by night,
quietly rebuilding herself each day
to meet a world of expectations?
Or, relieved of the weight
of such immense construction,
does she dance a loud and primitive dance
with private men unmentioned?
Unaware of the masks she wears,
or the bruises left by the rough assault
of history on her sex and her humanity,
her fretted fingers clutch
at all the little secrets,
kept like orphans in a home,
where the truth of her desire is untold
and the beauty of her blemishes
remains concealed,
where, until she’s free to live and breath
and be her natural self,
no laugh too loud, no smile too wide
can ever stretch her face with joy.

0 plus 100 equals 100. But so does 50 plus 50, only with more balance. Let this be a lesson in love.  ― Jarod Kintz

0 plus 100 equals 100. But so does 50 plus 50, only with more balance. Let this be a lesson in love.
― Jarod Kintz

The Burka

The burka precludes a woman’s dominion—
She never discovers her power.
Her beauty, concealed by pious opinion,
Is never allowed to flower.

The Appetite

Life is a darling
mantis:
after copulation
it eats its mate
beginning
with the head.
But perhaps
if we all came
with some oblation,
an offering,
a gift,
some tastier
morsel for the bed
we would be
better received
and better kept
while life ate
instead
from a horn
of plenty
and we slept
knowing
the insect
had been fed.

There is a kind of beauty in imperfection. - Conrad Hall

There is a kind of beauty in imperfection.
– Conrad Hall

Into My Love

How can this limitless feeling
be expressed in the limited terms
of my poor, exhausted tongue?
I lick the corner of my mouth,
unsure, and stare at a blank screen,
waiting to be filled with endless
thoughts of you. I hold my breath,
anticipating the flood. I breath,
counting each syllable, measuring
each rhyme, and into the vast expanse,
deeper and deeper I dive,
spilling into the infinite, hoping
to find you there, ready to join me
in the unquenchable object of my words.