“Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.” – William Wordsworth, beardy-weirdy-bardy, Benedick and Beatrice, between a rock and a bard place, come on you reds, Come what may, Doubt thou the starres are fire, Humour, is not that strange?, Katherine and Petruchio, Meanwhile back at the ranch..., much ado about summat, No holds bard, No malice before or after thought, poem, Prose, Shaky Speare strikes again, Should ticklesome, So 2 guys walk into a bard, sparking off each other's clogs, Squeaky-bum time, Still shakin' Stevens, there was a star danced, titter ye must, Velvet Javelins, Well Meadowed
“Sometimes the wish to kill you is
As precious to me as the undeniable
Fantastical facets opened up by, of, and through
The circadian practice of loving and longing for
Your bone-filled bastard being — held captive as I am within
The Dickens of the fetching and fly-like labyrinth that you are,”
She said, her pupils flying like two poison-dipped darts
All over him, their heart-shaped feathers knowing the route of old.
Fast fingers flew too, adjusting her many cups;
With her he’d never know where the ball would end up.
“Murder is it? What’s your pleasure, my lamb? I’m curious,” he replied, smiling,
Deadly honest in his arrow-pocked skin, but only on that point;
Not knowing how else to be, or not to be, or notably, whether
It was even truly possible to be anything other than perplexingly vexing.
A shake of the head, and she smiled in return, hubristic teeth ablaze:
“It is an unnamed, ill-defined slaughter, my deading of you, darling.
A hazy, finger-smudged practise in practice, dear.
For when examined, pinned out, splayed and surveyed,
There’s nothing tangible to behold, be held, or be beholden to.
No evident evidence of evil, no marring malice aforethought . . .
Yet . . . I’d be lost without your enduring, beckoning presence.
Unsubstantiated. Lint that might have been felt, good and proper.”
“Still might be,” he grinned, knowing that was then and this is now —
That he’d X-rayed, Blue-rayed and sashayed his way to her heart
Möbius stylee, and would never cease the girdling of her;
Circum and scribing, as the sir comes scribing,
His path both close and remote, regardless of those
Slings and arrows, outrageous or otherwise, always, ultimately fortunate.
Perhaps he was there, balancing lightly with her
On their shared pedestal that very moment?
Perhaps they shall teeter and totter there in perpetuum,
As she squares him up — as he equal-eyes-her.
“You are loved sir, and suit well that mantle worn for others,
But know thy heart’s donned underthunders are for this miss alone.
Suited and booted I’d have you,
Weather permitting, seas of sin — not forgetting
The pleasures of sitting and petting . . . perhaps.”
“Distill my beating heart,” he crooned,
Knowing her armoury and amour to be an endless, vast stash;
Legion in nature, yes, but only deadly in its stilted, stockinged stockade;
Restrained, yet madly — never meekly nor sadly — deployed.
Velvet javelins set to lampoon his jocular jugular,
Expansive in its swaggeringly inadvertent wind-ups.
— Enter Stage Left, Cadence for Decadence:
And how we LOVE like the rippling waves of the home team’s crowd;
Roaring with blood booming in our hearts;
Fury-filled eyes raised to the rooftops;
Tears in our fists; spinning rattles, punching auspicious skies,
And devotion billowing out in Clouds
Beyond measure, for pleasured measure;
Our sacrament: savage, sacredly mental, yet treasured,
Bold in its blind and teeming throes.
This matchless field of play to be . . .
True in its word’s worth — for He and for She.