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)
