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Click hereEsperanza
who burns incense
to some god of love
meets me in the lobby.
“Love is in the air,” she says.
I know better.
Down in the basement
I’ve built an alembic
of glass and fire
to distill love from ardor.
In the dark it glows
with amorous intent
and rumbles needy
but all I get
is the crust of lust
and whiffs of desire.
They say the old magick died
with Yeats and Crowley.
All the incantations
lost
to our shiny
post modernity.
So breath deeply
Esperanza,
bare pale flesh
vellum for the poetry of love
in black ink
inscribe
fresh canticles
beneath the navel
profane psalms
swollen
fecund
There’s that whiff again
“Love is in the air,” she says.
that I think you're a genius (but you know I think that, so don't make a federal case, lol). And of a whole five of a poem, this is the fivest part:
Esperanza
who burns incense
to some god of love
meets me in the lobby.
“Love is in the air,” she says.
I know better.
Down in the basement
I’ve built an alembic
of glass and fire
to distill love from ardor.
In the dark it glows
with amorous intent
and rumbles needy
but all I get
is the crust of lust
and whiffs of desire.
because I understand it completely. I understand it the way you meant it when you wrote it. But you knew that, too.
Wonderful images thoughout, and I'll give a 5 anybody that knows what an alembic is! Such a beautiful treatment of jaded hope.
I was a little distracted by your mechanics; sometimes punctuation and capitalization is used, sometimes not.
all consumed with setting the stage, getting the place "ready"? I like the scene, and her intent on keeping it her way, it is done, isnt it? :)