how little they know of their spectra.

a curious figure I must have cut, at parade rest,
chin tilted slight antemeridian, wholly unsatiated eyes.

in these environs, spectators are anticipated, even welcomed,
a galleria of the temporarily curious, peripherally interested,
and the wholly unimpressed.

one delicious spirit, a wisp of ravenaire locks and arctica blue amazement,
turned toward me, a quizzical cipher pursing her lips.

"your eyes haven't moved for hours, and your hands must be cramped.
what is it about this scene that has you so enraptured?" she inquired.

a fraction of smile hefted my lips. "the vivid." i replied. "the ache."

so her gaze returned, parallel to mine, and she blinked rapidly,
as if to try and accelerate her criticism apace with my own.

"you won't define it with sight." i replied. "you realize it beyond sensations.
each stream of color before us is an elementa, a basis, an amino unto lightscape.
red is siphon of heme, the gasp of hard penetration, the scorch of hand upon blazes.
yellow becomes the nuclearealm, the bathing hue of Sol-'pon-Gaia, daffodils at vernalia.
and blue is a shiver of first betrayal, dancing under forever, and a saxophonic love song."

perhaps a minute passed without further elaboration from either of us.

"i don't understand what you see, i'm afraid." she sighed. "it's just a picture, right?"

and for the first time in her hours, my hands and eyes came to life.

II. He gestured so articulately as if to emphasize his sincerity and I followed the lines of his fingers on their directional trajectory never really knowing why I asked him to explain himself and why on earth he’d condescended to be patient with me and I looked once more at the picture, immovable to me as any Gibralter, looked at how his hands made space built a story shed a tear for what was before him and I tried, oh how I tried, to have it move me, move within me the way it did for him but alas it remained firm and resolute in its immobility.

I couldn’t feel it. But I could feel. And I felt the need to prove it, to show I wasn’t incapable of tangible understandings between myself and others and so I reached out to him, my fingers grazing his cheek, and his arm held itself steadfast against the onslaught of my spatial transgression.

I could see him swallow and his eyes moved to me.

“You won’t define it with sight.” I said. “I’m more than mouth, muscle and moan. I’m memory and mystery, carnelian hued in my intent, indigo deep in reverential tempestuousness. I am tangled limbs of alabaster indecency and the delicate shell pink tracery of a haven from the storm. Your eyes will always betray you when it comes to one such as myself -and so good sir, what can you make of me, you who penetrate so deeply, how far must you thrust to discover the artistry of me?”

I should have blushed.
Perhaps I did.

But I stood there hands on hips, chin jutted in pugilistic defiance, eyebrow cocked in daring fashion, my heathen gypsy figure such a ridiculous pronouncement and yet, and yet, and yet,

I wanted to hear what he would say.

III. you preach in fire and enwrap yourself in pink, but what to do now, boy, what must you think?

and so, for a moment, enshroud eyes.

"then approach it as would those born without sight;
their world is tingle, tactilia and tremor.

fleshtone is the instant of first caress,
the peekaboo of come hither,
the flash of yes, we will.

red is the dewquiver of lips awaiting,
the singe of lustbreath on the neck
the whisper of consume.
the burnfuse of deux unto omega.

blue, it's iris-splash
an aria of respiration,
the awe of aquatica from here to forever,
the rush of immersa.

brown, why it's the crunch,
anchor 'pon clay and crust
plunge into the giving, fetid fields
deep, deeper than life, to imagination.

pink is the slickened, the rough rosacea,
the flowing twitch and warm lustacres,
bathe and envelope, hiss and boil, petit vous
the clutch, the engage and engorge, the gasp.

black, that moment before and after,
blanket of nothing, nothing at all, inken air
a swim in the lightyears, navigator nuit et noir,
cocoon the embryonic, fascinations and ferals."

and rise again, eyes; the scene, restored.

"Do speak your mind. Did I answer your question? Or answer you?"

IV. I trembled before a look

Almost anguished for its intensity
Striations of salacious intent
Were evident on the palms of his hands
Which he raised
In supplication
Or defense
Eyes closed against my onslaught
My
Onslaught
All foundations torn asunder
I was rendered
Base-less
Base
His kaleidoscope query into the better angels of my nature
Found hidden recesses
Walled off rooms
Labyrinthine tunnels
In the architecture of me
I was more than woman
Less than lover

His charitable rendering
Of me
To dust
The defragmentation
Of my emotional
Pigmentation

He destroyed me.

But

He Rebuilt me.

In an image more to his liking.

Galatea I became, surely too defiant for conventional obsession
As he raised his eyes once more to mine he was

Seeking

As if to follow the tunnel that his excavation had wrought

A strangled whisper, clung to my throat as if it could not bear to be let loose…

“you still don’t see me”

And it was true. He saw something, something he made, something he could dissect and discover and commit to purely material form. He missed one integral, one essential part, one detail that completes the contemplation of me…

My ugliness.

And for his kindness, I would have run, but I remained rooted to the spot, waiting for him to point out

The unbeautiful.

V. Beware when tossing down a gauntlet to an auroralist to play a game of God with you, head to toe. Which day shall we reign Heaven or serve in Hell?

VI. With angel eye and serpent tongue we cast about for favorable odds, and do you turn the other cheek I make no promises to abide by any such convention as you might give me too much credit for.

VII. Behind the cheek is that jaw, warm and fetid, and then the teeth; it drains the breast as neophyte and walls the conviction of unspoken sins behind instrument of joy, of introduction, of invitation and initiation. You surpass Eve, decrying the apple; you wish the snake.

VIII. And I shall make no apology, for I recognize no transgression, if it be the asp upon my breast that I hold close, never let it be said I am without mercy for the weak, for should not a creature so easily broken be given some succor?

IX. To speak of credit, forget not the conquerors of yore; they were intrepid in the face of xenophobic gods and rituals, forbidden lands and the ravages of civilizations bound to endure 'gainst their best onslaughts. They thirsted for spoils on scales we only dream of; they subjugated horizons for sport, and the weak were planted alongside their prayers. Fixate your target and forget your conscience.

X. A conscience is merely a waystation for the already admittedly guilty and centuries of civilization shall not bind me to such pap, for guilt I cast off, no gilding of this lily, for is not even a misstep perfect, if done with guileless grace?

XI. Such is the introduction to holy texts that reassure us wickedness is no damnation for souls electively pure; live now and regret forever. Brazen and brash, you'll make decorative ash, so I hint but to dare: The flame warms you, what shall empyre us?

XII. Self-immolation's never been my style, but go ahead and burn me for the breaking, strike the match and light the planking, and though my skin be singed and sooty, the joke is on you-

-because no more can you hurt me.

XIII. Ah, but you've misunderstood, I'd not harm if you I could/Colours of the palette I painted, they were sacrifice to the untainted/For men and women, when they deign to speak, craft the wonderland of communion they seek/And it's another world from throat to voice, come, come and conquer it, be such your choice.

XIV. I'll come, I'll come though light be my tread/ and I assume good sir you understand a bit of my dread/ for all that I gave one was rendered undone, torn asunder by carelessness/ nothing left of what was begun.

Still nothing bargained, nothing gained
I'll trouble you for a bit of your trust
if you'll trouble me for a bit of my pain.

XV. So, it's presumed to be consumed/Tear off the fear that we commandeer/Sear flesh into monotones off of bitemarked bones/And vaporize unto nebulous abyss as if nothing were amiss.

XVI. Accord, accord - So it is reached

my steadfast tower walls are breached.

XVII. So we know, and we venture forth, carry on/Defined with no sight but our own, behind a curtain now drawn.

02/19/2007

Author's Note: I can't thank my partner in crime for this piece enough -I am very proud of what was created and most of the credit must go to him!!

Posted on 02/20/2007
Copyright © 2025 Therese Elaine