an acquired taste, some may say,
a rare delicacy it is.
Its marks indelible on my inner palate,
Though i fear i my never have tasted it at all.
Of it i hold faint memory,
like a mist atop a hill
Higher still and fading with every grasp.
It had the scent of an unknown wine,
brewed in men’s hearts.
At times with the tangy prick of sacrifice
& a sweetness of simplicity.
Intense it becomes,
In the presence of love,
& the simple majesties of mine,
dark legs, bumpy skin,crooked teeth, memories
I felt it then.
The memories have brought it back,
In the buds of my tongue it has sprung.
An unlikely taste indeed,
Always happening upon me,
Never when i’m in pursuit.
This taste is like nothing I’ve ever had,
yet it has the familiarity of everything I’ve always wanted.
Nonplussed at its mysticism, I fear
It will vanish,
I hope it does not.
Now i have strangled them all,
I am no longer a princess.
All that remains,
Is this beautiful golden dust.
But of it,
I may have some use.
My hair has no flair,
It dangles not the length of a tower,
All that is,
are these tiny, black &curly cauliflowers.
I don them well enough,
On my head planted like a crown.
My prince was neither a frog,
neither newt nor toad,
he had white matted hair,
And oh how he slobbered.
To transmute into a prince, he will not,
though all i need are his sweet licks of loyalty.
As i said, I am a princess no more,
Neither a maid to be wed,
I am a king resurrected.
From that beautiful golden dust.
Only in the more pleasing &shapely form of your queen.
They cracked when i saw you,
That very first time,
these bottles of mine,
I keep them inside me,
They are glass you know,
They keep me sturdy, and firm,
They straighten my back,
Elongate my posture,
But they are just glass,
feeble,fragile, delicate glass,
the liquids inside them,
both fragrant and pungent,
I’ve collected for years,
From the drainage pipes of my soul,
Fluids of pain,
Fluids of angst,
Fluids of passion,
I’ve stored for years,
They have fermented now,
Some fine wines,
Others disgusting sludge,
And now they leak,
Since they cracked when i saw you,
That very first time,
These bottles of mine,
Now i worry,
What will happen if you touch me,
How they will crackle and shatter,
filling my body with spirits and poisons,
dissolving my soul,
Impossible to reconstruct,
Conversation enriches the understanding, but solitude is the school of genius.
A profound dislike for merely absorbing knowledge and a strong compulsion to learn by doing is one of the most reliable signs of genius.
These damned lesions haunt me,
With their constant bleeds,
21 years 10 months is what they tell me,
Since the last attack,
the cardiologist operated once,
Said he found a knife lodged in,
This monstrous pain beholden to 21 years of rust,
The doctor said he couldn’t excise it,
Apparently I must do it myself,
Be both surgeon and patient,
But whenever I grasp the scalpel,my arms shake,
The cold table leaved me frozen in cold,
I feel it all,
The anesthetic lulls me no more
This pain I am espoused,
beside me day by day,
Shall bury me,
Because with each day,
I grow progressively weaker,
I wonder how much longer I have
Before these open wounds take me.
We are but mirrors,
false reflections of the truth,
sentenced to forever imitate,
what nev’r will be,
Ugly misshapen receptacles of the ideal,
And now we have cracked,
Shattered into hopeless shards,
How then shall we recapture that old brilliance,
the brilliance of the true sun,
Must we wait,
Till Midas arrives,
To paint us a golden portrait,
Of the forgotten disc,
Before the wroughtness,
Takes away our shiny surface
Forever leaving us lost,
to the brilliance.