“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label taste. Show all posts
Showing posts with label taste. Show all posts
Sunday, February 3, 2019
The flavor of feelings
That horrid taste
is due to
the guts rotting,
turning sour
was like love
mistaken for instinct,
untraceable poison,
it seeps,
she weeps
and feels like the weak one
shaking under
the world.
But no.
That which once
quenched-
now toxifies
from inside out,
freely flowing in veins,
through valley's
lies in ruts
and where kisses
once planted
themselves,
now choking on weeds
telling herself
these
hold
the mud away
like selfish deeds
never survive
too long
now
tallest
in the forgotten fields
she chokes
on the view
and knew
this place
inside
was putrid.
Painting by Pierre Bonnard, 'Dining Room in the Country' c. 1913 in [Public domain].
Friday, February 12, 2016
Hunger in the sculpture garden
Tempting as it sounds
to taste literature with my tongue
there is a limit to what we can know
about authors intentions
the recipe is always
made to personal taste.
And once again I was lured to lick-
almost taunted
to be truthful-
with its smooth lines
melting in the sun
to tactfully taste the Rodin.
My palm salivating
I took a tiny sip
with just my salted fingertip
and noted the same
famished touch as Auguste,
kneaded under me. So I proceeded
to touch each one,
with my limb and flesh, swallowing the
sculptures and devouring their
stoic expressions.
A feast for the eyes,
an appetizer of art, bodies of work
for my insatiable appetite craving more
elements in my metallic spit.
Photo credit: Me, myself and I, 2/11/16.
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