Saturday, September 12, 2015

Mimi - Mona Poetry: Exegesis of The Affair

Can an aesthetic virtue be derived from an apparent hermeneutic vice simply by calling male lust a figurative discourse with fecundity?

©Exegesis of The Affair
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

The moon rose ass first
to avoid the thin sheets of air
icing the path of one
unsalvageable and reeking
of misery as deep as her soul.

Conjuring a ray of hope
to contradict her disposition
proved as useless as a
metaphor from a lover.

A Mozart symphonic climb collapsed
beside the tidal wash of despair
under her creative fingertips.

A stitch across her sanity
was number ten—out of time,
nothing was preserved.
She threw back Adam’s rib,
exed it out like the sixth day.

Twinkle little star of fate,
swirling around wishes not given
until like a broken water spigot gushed
poetic phrases he’d left unspoken;
but they were chiseled on his headstone
for some unknown mourner to savor...
no returns after seven days.

Like immobile bodies,
small and multistory,
the city’s eyes opened
beneath that crescent frown
of boredom; another night
of copious torture to be
inflicted and there would be
no rainbows to smile
on the victims tomorrow.

Eve’s innocent act of defiance
burgeoned in every heart
while the seedlings of denial
from her mate
cracked under the pressure
of God’s tears.

Her heart spun like a skater on ice
under his Svengali spell.
He sipped her like a fine wine
on reserve for only the best
and stole a kiss to her
fiery flesh. He searched
for her sauces... She
hastened his undoing.

(photo: A Couple of Seeds, conceptual wood sculpture by Anna Myranda)

Friday, September 11, 2015

Mimi-Mona Poetry: Would It Be Outrageous To Say—

True romance can be achieved even if, somehow, you're the only one who knows; you've just got to dance the dance even though the lie takes a lot less time, and the clean coming will hurt...especially when you're eating breakfast at the heartbreak hotel where there's dirt beneath the dirt. Where's your hiding place?

©Would It Be Outrageous To Say—
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved

At the beer-ring stained bar
beneath the odoriferous,
cigarette-stained ceiling,
Lucinda Magenta’s broad ass
hugged and balanced on
the three-legged,
wooden bar stool,
her smoke rings wreathing
her head on their way up;
life was complicated.

Max Zwack, the twenty-something
high-school loser had
dropped out, started
his own band, and drunkenly
swigged from the only bottle of
dollar Macallan, 1946,
in existence; it’d make
his daddy proud...
life was complicated.

The gold rush was over
and it became everybody’s joke, so
saying it didn’t change the way
it was when your jig-saw girl
waltzed away leaving you watching
and realizing her love was
no longer in bloom, and your
ending didn’t sound like
the happiest around; admit it—
life was complicated.

Never look up and never
look ‘em in the eyes
was the only sober
piece of advice from
the voice in your head,
and you knew how long
you’d been waiting and
what you had been through
while you were high on life,
life was complicated.