If I dream of thee
Hey guys! This particular poem is one for a university class of mine. Thought I might run it by you guys first before giving it over to my class mates and tutor to look over. I am using a bit of an experiential design here. The piece is meant to be reminiscent of place and space, ‘space’ in this aspect being my opinion of a place, or, in the case of the poem, a person. Please feel free to comment if you believe that there is something wrong with either the consistency or any other aspect!
I appreciate you taking the time to read.
Also, there are a couple of sexual references and some profanity in the piece. Thought I should mention that in case I receive some very young viewers! 😀
Waiting I was for twenty six years to find her,
and wonder I do when I think
together four years was not enough.
Is it greed that floods my sensors,
or is it more of something different
that is yet to be mentioned here?
General Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo
proclaimed that he be worthy
when fell upon his sword he did.
An answer I am yet to find
when question I do my worthiness
to hold onto the memory
of the woman I called my home,
for every day her voice I hear
on moments when soundlessness be not abandoned.
‘When we lay our heads down upon plush pillows,
our hearts begin to beat slower.
We succumb to the tiring sensation
that runs throughout our systems,
and as we close our eyes and let sleep take us,
promise me, my darling,
in the quiet of your fantasies,
you will have hallucinations
of my undying embrace.
This imprisonment is necessary,
for in our dreams we shall meet,
as we sleep under the cover of darkness
that has drowned out the day,
the dead of night rapping at our windows
as we soundlessly dream.
Although we are separated
by the immense oceans of time
that stretch out across the universe,
the nexus between us is most strongest
when our consciousness has been denied.
In this world we are bound not
by the limitations of the living,
who be impaired by lack of vision.
During our dream state we can see ourselves
for who we truly are in the land of the ancient spirits.
Lead you I will, through your sleep
until the two of us are together,
right where we eternally belong.
When around you I’m not,
let love be your guide.
I am in the weather that surrounds you;
my feelings are the winds
drifting across your features;
my thoughts are in the rain that hangs in the air,
and by the end you shall be mine,
as destined you are to be.
Every time you close your eyes it’s me you glimmer
because, in your memories I am alive,
for love like ours lasts more than forever,
it is time itself, and when meet again we do tonight
in your unconscious mind,
you have my permission to run your sweet
fingers through every strand of my hair.
Kiss me with your lips
that be stained with eternal love,
from which I have digested greatly
the affection of my paramour,
and happily drink your love I will,
just as you have drunk mine.
Eat your fill of my feelings
prepared on this platter,
for like numbers, my passion is never ending,
and just when you cannot stomach no more
I will kiss you awake
and tomorrow we can begin anew.’
Spoken are these words few
across the veil of serene passing,
and listen do I to the garrulous tongue
of my beloved as her whisper hangs on the wind,
for love that be true can be halted not
by even the dispersions of sacrilege.
Bound is fidelity’s chalice of mine
that points towards true north,
and when cometh my end does
meet her, my lady, shall I
in the city of angels that floats on the wings
of faith, truth and love.
A time there was once though
when different her emotions were,
and it was I who sacrificed his affection
in order to ensnare the complete attention
of the future residence my heart
longed to live within.
No problem have I ever with saying ‘I love you’
when such words are meant, although I believe
she did once resent such terminology.
Beneath her bench she did keep a voodoo doll
in the shape of any man who charmed her heart,
and stab the thing repeatedly she would
with a needle of solid silver
until a man fell out of fixation with her.
This attitude of hers was an unnecessary one;
a burden upon my soul that seldom feels rejection.
Resent these tactics I did,
knowing how not I would be felled
by such malicious crimes against my romance,
and as I whispered into her ‘all will be alright’,
her bated breath was then released
and she did simply breathe again
in unison with the beating of my palpitating heart.
So if I dream of thee this night,
waketh me not from slumber,
for the elements of but brick and timber
represent not the corporeal visage
of my heart’s desire,
and my one affliction.
My mortal coils bound
by the elixir of her good fortune
offers a defensive reprieve
from the bed of loneliness,
wishing not to sleep beneath the duvet
of such misfortune.
But sometimes this be not enough,
and the phone I ring to have a conversation
with the unforgotten dead.
The ghost of my one true love
is recorded on a loop,
that shall proceed to play for an infinitude,
for the immortal carrier of her voice time is.
I listen with an empowered intent,
to hear my heart’s home say the last goodbye
we were eternally denied.
Shall not shed a tear I will,
but joy instead will be that which erupts
across my features,
for the unwritten tale of our affection
is a story worth consideration
in the halls of unequalled passion.
Not is my permanent place of residence
my home. Protection it does indeed provide,
like a barrier between worlds,
but love and warmth is given not
by the walls of this establishment.
My homesickness felt is not for this construction,
but the home that hath occupy
this residence once with me.
The home that which contains
my palpitating muscle
of passionate throes
alas is a stationary object not,
but a ravishing creature
who hath captured me
with an unending ease.
Inanimate is not my home,
her roof that which shelters me
being not a mass of tiles
but hair, each strand belonging
in its own place upon
the herbal scented features
of her head, burning
like an out of control grass fire
that rampages across the land.
Cement and brick her flesh is not,
but gentle to the touch
of my fine fingers as I caress
a form of physical magnificence
quite like no other,
my home having taken legitimately
the crown of purest gorgeousness
from the head of Aphrodite,
being bestowed this grateful honour
on the orders of a winged angel,
the Goddess of love and beauty
having for the first time
to stand in the shadows
of my beloved’s figure.
Like a painting hung upon the wall,
her body be the canvas
of such fruitful expenditure.
A rose that be as dark as night
is etched upon her shoulder left,
whilst a sentence strung from words writ
beneath the surface of her flesh
is accumulated on the opposing side;
Je n’ai l’amour de soi et j’adore ca.
A symbol of nefarious intent
in the form of a religious cross
that be hung inappropriately,
drawn in the darkest colour imaginable
that be thick like it is filthy
is painted ever so delicately
across the sumptuous design of her back.
The opposite to this artwork
is, ironically, on the other side,
a slender angel in an ink of blue
hangs like a chandelier
between the ample peaks of her chest,
the wings of this here blessed creature
resting upon thy lady’s bosom’s mantel.
An artist, who must have perspired dangerously
during the birth of the snake
that worms its way around my lady’s lower regions
would have begun the piece of work
where the tail lies beneath the button
in her body’s centre.
Its form slithers towards that which
shall not be mentioned yet,
the tongue of this venomous reptile
resting but an inch above Venus’s mound.
A fire breathing serpent,
quite unlike the creature writ
in the stanza prior,
rests its inflamed features
upon the leg of the woman I call home,
a ring of fire burning
around the body of this wretched beast.
Felt not is pain by a house that is built,
but when born, a different story this is,
however, never ought a tale such as this
be written upon the page again.
A tear, crystalline in appearance
will roll across the flawless features
of the woman I have here regaled,
when consumed with bereavement
her gorgeous soul unfortunately suffers
once the deliverance of offensive villainy
unto her life of beauty is betided.
But she be strong in contrast
with what may be believed,
and if flirt too much did a man
unworthy of her consideration,
apply she would mascara to his angry eyes
and to his chapped lips would be gloss
as she proclaimed with a smile
‘now you be my little bitch!’
If, like a volcano, a commotion did erupt,
and enter did I the room where explode the violence had,
only to find one such person beaten up upon the floor,
‘what the fuck have happen here?’
would be the words bestowed from me,
before being told, simplistically;
‘like this it did happen –
started it he did, and it be I who ended it.’
The lights that illuminate
dark passages on a cold winter’s night
are her cayenne flavoured eyes, shining brighter
than the stars orbiting our atmosphere
that need not switching on,
for always do they exceed
all else that radiates this world
in glowing fixtures.
The chimney is connected not
atop her frame, but to her mouth,
the slender stick of smouldering ash
permeating the world around her
with its obnoxious fumes.
The repugnant flavour of the smoke,
once cycled through her lungs,
has become a scent so sweet,
one could not imagine it was ever so brutal to behold.
Like oxygen is this fragranced cloud
to her, the scented smoke
bringing a smile to those lips that be reminiscent
of the flames she bathes in.
Her cigarette could spontaneously erupt
and paint the effigy of a blazing inferno
that spans her entire body,
and she would shrug and say with bated breath,
‘had to happen sometime.’
Unlike a house belonging
to the land, rooted in place
and grown from the imagination
of workmen’s fingers,
like the seedling of a growing flower,
who speakth only with the
creaking of wood
hanging above me in the ceiling,
its choice in words
reaching my ears on nights
when the wind blows thickest,
different is the speech postulated
from the lips of my humble home.
Opinionated is she,
with an intellect that defies
all known comprehension,
the sounds that roll off her tongue
being not sounds at all,
but words, that need not deciphering
as I listen with an avid ear
to the harmonic gestures
of a musical score
that ought never to be unheard.
The words that fall from thy mouth
match those which be produced
by the lady from my dreams incarnate,
whose words, spoken in an accent untraceable
are concocted by rosy lips of a pink hue
which long, like a flower in the meadow
to be plucked, oh so courteously.
‘You’re the air I breathe,
you’re the sword I seethe,
you’re everything I know.
You’re the destination I will go
to hold onto you my king.’
‘You’re my diamond ring,
you’re my lighthouse in the harbour.
You are the future mother
of my children, my loving queen,
the only one who makes me feel like a human being.’
Although not is meaning lost to thy words spoken,
come a time does on occasion
when what be said fails to clarify
the feelings found within,
and it is on rare occasion such as this
that the touch of flesh against flesh
will say more than what could ever be spoken aloud.
An entryway there be not of conventional design
to touch the soul within her castle’s keep,
for there be no moat to cross
and there be no palace guard.
But permission is ever only granted
to those deserving of her patronage,
the fire that burns within touched only
by the hands of those with just merit
who hath captivated her unruly passion.
Ease not my way through the front door
for there be no knob to turn,
but a buckle that needs undoing
to reveal a pathway to a dungeon
of incomprehensible delights,
the likes of which I cannot help
but lust to plunder.
Upon the first time of this moment transpiring
I remember what sprang to mind, the thoughts,
and I said to myself with gusto great;
‘I shall not shield my eyes,
for the morbid curiosity of mine
is a boundless ocean,
that longs to explore the farthest reaches
of my destined home,
with regions contained across all surfaces
yet to be named by man,
and if I may be so bold
to ask the owner of this here promise land
a question, with regards to whether
I can be the explorer to put a name
to these areas of lustrous pleasure
and great beauty, when exploring
not just her lower most features,
but the mountain ranges of her torso.’
Now, that it be time for a conclusion
to be writ upon the page,
it can be said with a heart, heavy with burden,
that ‘death is when the darkness takes you,
belittled by the black of night.
I don’t want to feel this first before I die,
I want to feel you instead,
for you are oh so hot like a burning bush,
the embers of your effigy
captivating me with a raw ecstasy of emotion
unlike any that I have inhaled before,
and known it should throughout the land
that separate we shall not,
for, unequivocally, there be no death in love.’
Posted on August 8, 2013, in Poetry, writing and tagged beauty, communication, death, dreams, feelings, ghosts, home, house, life, love, love poem, love poetry, passion, poem, poetry, relationships, romance, sex, sleep, strength, student, tatoos, university, women, work, worth, writing. Bookmark the permalink. 11 Comments.