NAKED, AND WHAT COMES AFTER by Daniel Essman I saw her frighted sambal eyes distraught, fire food

wanta bet on her love diet of betrayal. A cloud of barking crows flew amid the scattered garnets amid the scattered diadems. Ash blacks her wide and perfect lipstained adoration, a shaft of coal shadows falls across the carcass of memory lane. In my sleepless waking, when memory serves as sleep to the insomniac, I cried out an ode to Lady Madrigal... to the pain of her childhood. What comes before the naked, and what comes after. We met in a hotel bar. She asked if she could buy me a drink. Shy behind the orange-tipped punctuation of her periodic cigarettes. The service was hers, as was the sauntering ironical approach in a scene that stank of bourgeois symbols and powdered music. She said, "This place sucks my spirit, let's split. I know an african cathedral for hop heads and the mute..." "Crazy..." I said. Her lyric tongue ravaged me. She took me to a simpatico basement club suffused with obscure rhapsodies. Where tabacco cats smoke in azure, fingerpaint in azure, and touch dancing to memorial blues. Her name, she told me, was Madrigal, and that sometimes she was a good enough poet to beat back impersonal night, but not every night... I could see in her eyes the red green christmas light of sluts, and she knew this fatally and I was lost panorama. And later, conjure later, at her metric urgency, she intook me... night fell clattering, pells and conjunctions, stuttering je t'aime, as my... ripe fingers rip chambray to the cottony mound amore and love ravine, butt cut and valley, to fuck infinitely in raging Eden, pale specimens and vibrant on the tuning fork of the muse. As we loved, I listened. I knew her in her all-night history. And I watched her in her weighted sleep, all limp-limbed and down-tossed from a great height to our brief bedding, frenzy fucked overtime by archangel poetry into her last recorded syllables and faint. And me, in lust leap and fine sweat and sweet amusement, fallen full fathom into my own portrait sleep and dream...


NAKED, AND WHAT COMES AFTER by Daniel Essman I walk in the dressing gown of history. Only these togs and my lover's light fingers. Forget the maps and the city, your room-liberal love and the redlight greenlight district gaming and the giant step, "Mother-may-I," all at once on the first square of desire. Jacks, was it, that we would play on your flat belly? Sweep away the steel, to a cadence. Scars and fire mark your belly, torture and resolve. The joy to bare naked and the breasts of jill. There's courage to tumble in this woman, to keep on falling at the foot of a damaged crown. Her past had become my own... I knew her first true love. I saw the betrayals. I felt Madrigal's redemption in her hot wet breath on my throat, that defied impersonal night, in the naked and what comes after. There was no one on the bluff at moonset. Just the maybe newborn sunlight crawling up the high of the hill. Sunlight crept where the lover's walked, juking wanton in the hillslope grasses. Sunlight hugs the pasturage where lover's soaked their love-stained underthings in water and left them to the windrestless green on green, a blade on blade cantata of advisories that whisper in my incontinent memory. Memory that cuts of an impossible innocent evening in Eden. Our love that defies the lonely faceless numberless nights. Our love was the sorcery, at the base of prayer, to the dark hours, taken out of time, and given the spaceless semblance of the Eternal Naked and what comes after.


Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful