Copyright © 2009 Ernest Bloom.
The tired cliché of the starving artist?
Yes, but not like you'd imagine. Her words
in digital bits blast sparks in savage
torrents underneath my ringing cranium,
like the cleansing tempests pounding
Prospero's sacred isle. My love, my love!
What tarantellas you chase my broody heart
and dreams into! What unanticipated tides of
oxytocin and dopamine you tug upon these dry
and lonesome shores when you speak of the smut
and low-brow books you use to sop up worthless
tears, when I could (and would) cradle a starry
constellation like you in these, my famished
arms, for a million years!
"Prospero's sacred isle"- ah, never enough Bard references, ever. I adore this comparison- a lonely desert island and then later on the dopamine tugging upon the dry and lonesome shores- really it's quite breathtaking.
ReplyDeleteI'm not sure if it's sarcasm I hear. The woman doesn't seem to be too much of a muse unless for her beauty but ah, that is left untouched to the imagination of the reader. I wonder. Well, love IS blind, they say and a stuff of madness.
not blind, but unconcerned; certainly not sarcasm; at least, not in the writing; what you hear i can't say. madness, definitely. our friend mr dylan once said: 'i can't help it if you might think i'm odd/if i say i'm loving you not for what you are, but what you're not.' sometimes that is all the difference.
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