Ecstasy

Ecstasy V2

His discipline
was her most
desired mercy.

He subdued
and elated her
simultaneously.

He affronted
her with exquisite
hedonism.

She kept him
with sacrilegious
possession.

Reminiscent
of a memory,
she was yet
to treasure.

In their intimacy
he humiliated her,
until she learnt
humility.

Unfounded –
they remained unfound.

In ecstasy.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

Benediction

 

He was her all black and blue

He was her every backward move

 

Bitten lips, sugar swollen tongues

unable to breathe, only to succumb

 

Wild-rose rush, indecorous release

bewildered by being hostage beneath

 

Afterwards, he whispers her to him:

“You are so loved,

you are so loved.”

 

© Katypoetess 2015

The Gentleman and the Gypsy

 

Hunting

 

Across fields he tilled in younger years, he catches

scent of red. Not blood or sweat but tears unshed,

trailed and led by tail that beckons capricious cunning.

 

Narrowing eyes, he carefully espies a brush of a life –

pelt of auburn, soft curves defined by hill and valley,

skin furrowed a meadow of perfect imperfection.

 

Bridled and bit by curiosity, charging steed to seek

need of something he cannot fathom. With shot and crop,

wind whips his smile into a bold, blind determination.

 

Greener and greener he tracks, chasing scent to song,

tail turns to vixen of a girl, writing wild rose ballads

sitting pretty, ankles cuffed by daises to caravan of calling

 

He catches her hallowed earth eyes, “Good Morning” he cries,

“Bore da” she replies as horse steps through gorse trying

to touch her inevitable heather. Her breeze whispers “Never.”

 

Shooting

 

Raising rifle he fires double barrelled name into her heart.

Stunned serene submission on back of charge, he relentlessly rides

her roughshod through rapefields returning to his unstately home

 

Through pillared entrance, she wakes, wandering a welcome disruption

in every windowed room. Heather replaces leather, shot removed.

He chides by gun and crop, adorns her with trophies and treasures.

 

She chastises, rolling in and out of his bewildered bed of bygone pride.

Closed doors unlock his love for prodigal daughter who mocks him.

Outside the horse grazes a remorse for its part in this indecorum.

 

Slowly the revered curse of middle aged folly bears a gallant courtship

of jocularity. She yields her language and idleness to become his lady.

Her devoted divination deteriorates his decaying walls of roguish past.

 

Fishing

 

Her newly wed coquetry tantalizes and frightens, old blood battles with new.

Retreating outside, he edges stagnant pond with baited kisses for life he remised.

Casting rod and line towards minnows, awaiting his return to tomfoolery.

 

Unhooked by her persistent palmistry, he looks for horse, crop and gun,

but all have gone. Mansion transformed in his abhorrent absence into

caravan of romanic reciprocity, she flays him with dedicated daises once again.

 

In laying down his reel, he realises his life is now richer for being poorer,

he is healthier in his sickness, her dialect divine and their fortunes aligned

The circling raven caws an oath to them both – “So mote it be, so mote it be.”

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

 

 

Dumb Destiny

 

I cannot speak to you anymore.

Though over these clay hearted years,

we never really spoke at all.

 

So now it finally must end

as I am taken once again

by collared, artistic agenda.

 

I cut languid love loose

re-tie dumb, devoted knots

that only he will now render.

 

Forbidden of fruitful verse

which may wistfully introduce

play on words of mourning.

 

My pen breathing jealous

reluctantly moulds itself madly

into new, amorphic belonging.

 

So you remain not lost – yet never found.

Source material that floats as cirrus,

I cannot speak to you anymore.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

Residual Haunting

 

There are these times of the year

that hunt and haunt my soul.

If I am undistracted – unaccompanied

then I become unexpectedly – unnerved.

 

Whispers on the breeze I cannot hear

catchlights in eyes I cannot see

memories of you I can no longer feel.

 

You are only 10 miles away

out of my life –

but no distance away

from this

residual haunting.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

Ezzelin and Meduna

 

 

 

 

Iron Lung

 

Sometimes.  Sometimes, when I am alone,
I slowly, warily try and bring myself back.
Cry out the rotting lump in my throat,
pull at greying hair, a constant reminder,
life is passing and you are no longer there.
Unable to breathe. A little girl lost,
flying kites into thunderclouds.

Glancing faces of mornings in all their glory
delivers me to rest – and now I’m blessed
with a life I guess at in your absence.
Heart stolen hard – drum tight face
that’s melting the hell of no tomorrows.

New riches to rags physician stirs and grinds
toxic past into sand, a pacified thoracic cavity.
Fission and fusion of soporific delusion
feeding a longing for foetal peace. I am safe
and saved. Yet iron lung love is stillborn.
His unexpected, resisted gift of healing
is only sealed by white ribbon of time.

© Katypoetess 2015

Sweet Light

 

The hour before sun does set and twilight born
hazy aroma of cooling fields and hearts forlorn
Homeward bound, and bound to home
The wayward desires cease to roam

Sweet light nymph strays into beaten field
To catch that haze she dares to feel
She writes a glimpse of hope untold
As fragile as the petals she dares to hold

© Katypoetess  2015

 

image

 

Solstice

 

Come to me.

In darkening clouds

and balmy breeze

that boldly bucks

my willow tree

into enlightenment.

Come to me.

 

Touch me.

Touch me where

I ache the most

show the least

and love you the best.

Touch me.

 

Stay with me.

Share my twilight

sultry sensual stars

with a shine that

warns off dawn

of atonement.

Stay with me.

 

© Katypoetess  2015

Beholden to Behind

 

A thumb – intently placed on chin

caressing every freckle into a letter

that spells out a story blushing lips

that remand and remade the ending

 

Forefinger – smoothing the jaw

straight as lines read and re-read

he turns her over like a page

his favourite fable, every inch

a mythology of unreason.

 

Genteel palm – perfectly placed

on ripened white, depressing spine

into maidenly goading of docility.

Two hearts, to start – a beautiful violation

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

Funfair

 

Posters – depicting your attraction

were long ago hollered and rolled up

into human curiosity of loquacity.

Sights and signs remain crystal bright.

The fortune teller sees to that.

 

How I strip teased round ribboned pole

Winding that prize in disguise was the yow

I knew. Then not chosen to be May queen,

I helter skeltered to hate, heal, redeem

Tortured by silence amongst the crowd

 

You, nag drawn and I despatched

to merry carousel. Riding up and down

on horses for courses with names saddled

  • pain, shame, anger and sympathy

gilded with lilies and forget-me- nots.

 

Waiting and wondering, you stay and play

hoopla on crooked cross of wedlock.

Meanwhile, I rest content in tent of salubrity.

Tasting, thriving, on every last supper offered,

delectable dishes wanting to be served cold.

 

Occasionally we ring bell of number withheld.

Letting off engine steam, reminding us

it’s you and me. Punch and Judy of frilled

fabled connection, red and white stripes –

delightful delusion, dangerous deflection.

 

Your wilful tuppence in a tear bottle

Now ladylike half crowned princess,

a nelipot chancing the side stalls

However you twist card of fate, decision made.

I will not fall shy of the hardest coconut.

 

So – before we pack up this freak show

Who’s the hook and who’s the duck?

Paddling hopeful swingboat of truce.

Popguns loaded, one of us will run out of luck.

Holler loud. Roll up. Now that’s the way to do it.

 

© Katypoetess 2014

Masquerade

 

I

Staring a half-hearted wonder of who you really

are into a crackle and glow of home comforts,

I swill serene glass of Margaux round and round

in hand that writes and re-writes reminiscence.

 

Commuting through those sullied Surrey suburbs,

did the severity of your suit cut a sharp intake of

my breath as I pushed through the hollow crowd?

Poetry flames in devotion, an awakening in motion.

 

Far away, but recklessly closer than you think,

you slowly shut your MacBook down in disquietude.

Restlessly twisting vexed metal round and round

on hand that has reached out to any port in a storm.

 

Paroxysm of ravening strikes at being lost within loss,

eternally searching  for your own fire nymph of fervour.

Body ages with resigned alacrity and mind unkempt,

a lonely clandestine, mixing glitter with fool’s gold.

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.*

 

 

II

Our host never lets guise slide as he enters

the ballroom, face familiar but unknown,

creating mystery with grammar school tones.

An iridescent blend of anxiety and cunning

He tastes debauchery with decaying eyes,

every flavour of colour through a screen of lies .

Host of followers delightfully exposed

on account of his whims, letting masks fall

dancing hither and thither, beautiful curves

weave and smile, they come – and they go,

but what he really craves for is a beautiful soul.

To keep him alight as years ember and cajole.

 

Clock strikes darkest hour before dawn,

he divines brilliant blue flame in hearth,

an uncomplicated complexity, rising a

Pandora’s paradox with hell-fired hair.

A nightmare dressed like a daydream

in libertine gown, tempered high heels,

an antagonist extreme, holding brave glass

chalice of mistrust, and whip of austere suspicion.

 

She strides – cracks right through his marrow,

Hands him her whip and blood-red drink

Even though they have only just met

She smiles an indecorous, whispering light

“Don’t look at your face in the mirror,

look at the nymph that sustains your soul.”

Stroking ashen hair at his tempestuous temple,

“You are not so faded yet – I think.”

 

*Excerpt from Dylan Thomas – Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

image

 

 

Momento Mori

 

“Chin

down

slightly,

head towards finger, keep going, keep going, there – stop.

Eyes to me.”  

 

Sequestered devotion to bemused muse.

She stares back digressive, dictated expression.

Seeing now not the man, but the Brady stand.

 

© Katypoetess  2015

 

 

 

 

 

Resurgam

photo[1]

Doors thrust wide, her tide embraces his endeavour

His horizon does command

She laps at his feet

 

Subterfuge of heat, flicked cufflink catches light

After pinstriped carefree night

Burnt down pier of inhibition.

 

Obedient sea stretches, serenely washing away

His sinfully modest fantasies

Replaced by funfair of freedom

 

Prevailing through rising mist of coquetry

While tasting her salt of want.

 

© Katypoetess 2015

 

 

The Gentleman and the Gypsy

 

Hunting

 

Across fields he tilled in younger years, he catches

scent of red. Not blood or sweat but tears unshed,

trailed and led by tail that beckons capricious cunning.

 

Narrowing eyes, he carefully espies a brush of a life –

pelt of auburn, soft curves defined by hill and valley,

skin furrowed a meadow of perfect imperfection.

 

Bridled and bit by curiosity, charging steed to seek

need of something he cannot fathom. With shot and crop,

wind whips his smile into a bold, blind determination.

 

Greener and greener he tracks, chasing scent to song,

tail turns to vixen of a girl, writing wild rose ballads

sitting pretty, ankles cuffed by daisies to caravan of calling

 

He catches her hallowed earth eyes, “Good Morning” he cries,

“Bore da” she replies as horse steps through gorse trying

to touch her inevitable heather. Her breeze whispers “Never.”

 

Shooting

 

Raising rifle he fires double barrelled name into her heart.

Stunned serene submission on back of charge, he relentlessly rides

her roughshod through rapefields returning to his unstately home

 

Through pillared entrance, she wakes, wandering a welcome disruption

in every windowed room. Heather replaces leather, shot removed.

He chides by gun and crop, adorns her with trophies and treasures.

 

She chastises, rolling in and out of his bewildered bed of bygone pride.

Closed doors unlock his love for prodigal daughter who mocks him.

Outside the horse grazes a remorse for its part in this indecorum.

 

Slowly the revered curse of middle-aged folly bears a gallant courtship

of jocularity. She yields her language and idleness to become his lady.

Her devoted divination deteriorates his decaying walls of roguish past.

 

Fishing

 

Her newly wed coquetry tantalizes and frightens, old blood battles with new.

Retreating outside, he edges stagnant pond with baited kisses for life he remised.

Casting rod and line towards minnows, awaiting his return to tomfoolery.

 

Unhooked by her persistent palmistry, he looks for horse, crop and gun,

but all have gone. Mansion transformed in his abhorrent absence into

caravan of romanic reciprocity, she flays him with dedicated daisies once again.

 

In laying down his reel, he realises his life is now richer for being poorer,

he is healthier in his sickness, her dialect divine – and their fortunes aligned.

The circling raven caws an oath to them both,  “So mote it be, so mote it be.”

 

 

© Katypoetess 2015

The Hierophant’s Castle

 

Exposing herself in the hiding, she unearths there’s more to life than

the pretence it creates.  He gently tethers her divinity to his bed, bending

the scripture through a lens instead. Facilitating compliance from defiance

he circles the remains of malleable body with sombre smile that masks twisted

torn ventricles secreting eternal bitterness. Veil of temple surrounds.

Extracting spear of fear and loss, she starts to write without spite or danger.

 

He plays her faithful servant.  Using every melancholic finger, she suffers

and clings, feasting for relief from pain of longing. Hand to mouth she banquets

on apples and pomegranates, exuberant on forever flowing wine of uncertainty.

He slowly picks out dead red roses from wilted wreath. The lilies he adorns her with

are at first white with fright, then slowly blushing through to brightest blue and scarlet hue,

a sanguine pediment for his newly captured, composite Magdalene.

 

Excerpt from The Hierophant’s Castle by © Katypoetess  2015

 

Cowardice

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I loved a coward, not once but twice

He stole my heart and played it fine

Left it for dead and did deny

It ever existed, but now it’s mine.

I stole it back, along with my pride

Not succumbing to cruel games and lies

Time ticks wide with my wry smile

Watching the coward running to hide.

Katypoetess 2015