Better ChampagneSo there we are sitting in an over hot room at the Sorat in Hanover,
in a corner room where sun blazes in through all the windows,
early September, we shed clothes and lie on the floor
drinking cheap champagne, eating Turkish olives and talking.
How we talk, over and over the same thing, delighted,
we've alighted onto the next stage of sex and passion,
as sweat falls, we are intoxicated, in us, in cheap champagne,
in a sun drenched room, a commuter belt, cheap hotel.
I think then, not even clearly, that it is not really love but
newly liberated it feels good and it's dangerous,
love on the wild side, full of excesses, a carnal greed,
we devour each other and the sun sinks, cooling,
some time we fall asleep, exhausted, olives spoiling
and the last dregs that curdled our insides spilling.
The Christmas markets in Celle, another hotel, this time
more comely, outside in the courtyard a Christmas tree
sparkles and overnight it snows, blustery cold, we drink
wine with spices and buy chocolates from surly shopkeepers,
find an Italian restaurant where a voluptuous Italian lady,
in voluble german hand feeds her customers with calamari
and cheap wine, we wipe feasts on damask cloths.
We fight, feed, fornicate, each in frenzy, there is a do or die
and I would be lying if I said I had loved you then if ever.
I loved the freedom of flesh on flesh, fighting constraints,
breaking through passions, long since kept under wraps.
We fought, each fight more blood thirsty than the last.
Then of course there is always a victor and somehow
this love on the wildside loses its appeal. Sometime you
have to heal in the most carnal way. Desire is heady with
the most basic truths of nature and passion.
To be a Lioness and take and feed and gorge on each other,
all tongues, of and cold liquid love that drips and stains,
there are no limits and boundaries are crossed the re-crossed.
Two artists should never fall in love, it is always doomed,
we feel too much, are too extravagant in our desires, eventually
the wild side is just that and to create, one needs peace
and the oneness of just yourself. I like to crash symohonies
on the rocks around the island of my heart, then later when calm,
I take the peaceful voyage up through the veins and sinews.
Returning replete, until the next time the roar happens,
in another room, somewhere, perhaps better champagne to sup.
Poetry by Elle
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Written on 2016-04-02 at 10:45
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