Thursday, 18 August 2011
Language of the Eyes
The Language of the Eyes
My mistress will not talk to me nor I to her. Instead my eyes
And lashes will do the speech and signal of my desire and spies.
My mistress will allow me only the briefest snatch of her eyes
Looking right through me, as if I am not there, heedless to my sighs.
Her cheeks alone flush in recognition, horror and surprise.
Lovely one, I will not lower my gaze nor jilt your chastise.
I have vowed to conquer you and intend to take you as my prize.
And your lips will melt one day like a gag to stifle your cries.
For this triste was meant to be, before one or both of us dies.
Woman is the instigator of all beauty and cruelty. In her prism alone
Is wisdom entrapped and enslaved. Her lines are the lineaments of chrome.
She had the purest lines I had ever seen,
Arching brows and brown eyes obscene.
Her hair fringed a forehead so clean,
Her limbs spoke of forests unseen -
Her hands enveined not an ounce of flesh excess
Her darkness quivered to excite my sex
This woman played her profile like a lutenist.
Her cheekbones scavenged absolutist.
What defence had I against one so brutish?
Equipped with eye and body,
She was a mystery.
I have been thwarted by woman kind
Oh such a splendid detour!
I shall be back on course soon.
I am a beast of testosterone,
A bearded monster of a cocksure