The Ear; Her Most Sensitive Area

It was the first lick, gently caressing the earlobe by force of a muscle more sensitive, more precise and more personal than any other. The saliva marking a single touch remained tingling her senses of what the touch had been. It was not a physical response playing in her head, as she had no vision of him but that of the mind’s eye. He could be anyone, a stranger among many who could have snuck up to abuse the most sensitive point. A million thoughts along the causeway into strangers ended in the shadow returning unbidden always in her deepest thoughts. Suddenly. With this thought. His lick was this lick, an acid burning as any acid, of drug. A perfect hallucinogen fell into her mind, the thousand hands he had with him in his spiked pockets. She glanced down, down seemed like a thousand miles of feels and flays, the hands working a magic none would do alone.

Two hands reached out from the ethereal realm pulling her head up with force. Again. A lick, desensitizing her mind to hands covering whole body. Sensitizing her only to this part, this place where lips touched skin. Pierced skin let her own saliva mix with blood as she moaned slightly into the room while her head was forced further back. As she wanted to turn and kiss, this darkness from where soft and strong mixed into pleasure and pain, she was withheld with force strong enough for her exhaling breath clouded the silence with sound of acceptance. A smoke turned dazzling red from the fire inside the hearth of the body, spreading out, unfolding itself to the void she stood in. Fire bright caused shadows amass to her reach. As ecstasy in its search at last found her, with this intense hold, skin imprints on her, and the pure saliva sucking her into memories never born, she could at last close her eyes and fall into what she had withheld of herself.

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Her Fascination of Suits

“Hey! Are you listening to me?!”

Those linen pants, stretching down from the floor and up into my eye of sight, neatly administered to a body none the less fitting to a person such as her in height, if she was seated, as she was at this time. Neatly ironed, the grey stringent colours flowed omnipotent caressing the masculine clear edged body. A cause of harmony altogether.

Her eyes flashed from the deepest thoughts only halfway into reality. Touched by a dream her hungering eyes avidly licked in the images of his grey dry-cleaned jacket smothering the clear images of reality into crumbles and curls in the power of her sloppy yet eager hands. Further up her oceans (of hunger) met his hazel, entwining, rainwater to the dirty ground with the only fixed sensation stirring. Trees were rising to forests, the fantasy thoughts gripping the reality.

As branches of vine enveloped her arms, hands and body while their eyes were fixed, to grow, something unnaturally natural. Another control stirred, desire was upon them

For the green lush forest of spring had entered them, as they soon would, each other.

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Her Nightly Thoughts

As the hands drifted down each side of the thigh a lingering sensation, which she had so longed for started surging back into her body. 
Not as a straight flow, but rather penetrating each fingertip to drive along her skin with the flow, causing what would rather be a stirring inside her own fingertips. A buzzing sensation as she had been singed and stung by a poisonous viper. The poison from the animal was quickly spreading along her veins to the heart, each pump heating the blood to a boiling point, causing a heat such as never before, disabling her ability to resist the urge to let him draw her closer. As close as the clothes they were still wearing would allow. 

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The prophet

 The prophet

I don’t feel anything, but cold,

but misery,

but sadness.

I do not see anything, but horror,

but grief,

but misery.

I do not breathe, the light air,

the fright that care,

Unburden my heart.

I do not get, anything,

but loss,

but misunderstandings.

I do not create,

but destroy,

but twist.

I do not

Another personality poem. Can you see the meaning behind knowledge?

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The insistent romantic

I thought I would start this blog out very simple. I am currently working on, as a side project to my Edward Choice blog (look in the pages at top), to translate my very old poems about personalities. I had then, so many years ago, called the poems into the group of ideal personalities, those that you can find yourself as a part of at times. I think it was from these I developed an interest in Archetypes, and it is those that have given rise to the archetypes, which are so dominant in the world of Choice. Today I am posting my translation of the insistent romantic. It is fitting for a writer, to write about a romantic, as a first thing, so that is what I am doing.

Notice this is a very different poem from the danish one. I have completely rewritten it, with some sentences being the same.

The insistent romantic

With this, the rose, in hand.

Every pump of heart, beats in rhythm:

Barum tum, barum tum, barum,

It slows, from this, which is, his iron grip

Slowly

From that, of the rose, she strains.

Every scream she makes, cause a cringe of his nose:

Fiideee fiddaa, fiideee fidaaa, fiiiii

It ends, in that, I wonder if, the heart held

Fast

Into this, the night, she blooms

Every drop of blood, a bud in the night:

Drip drip, drip drip, drip

He writes, in this, sprung from, her blood

Love

He is, a gardener, to tend

Every flower he cuts, and must from drink:

Glug glug, glug glug, glug

It grows, if cut, making room, for yet new bloom

Life

She is, lying dead, in ground

Every correction possible, to the earth around:

No sound…

It was, only mould, it still is, only mould

Grave

Den insisterende Romantikker
12.1.2007

Med rosen i sin hånd,
flyder blodet fra hans jerngreb.
Hjertet pumper,
Langsomt.
Nøjsommmelig hans næse rynker,
var det mon hjertet der holdt,
fast.
Hans rose blid-id,
bliv nu udsprunget.
Skriver i deres blod,
som vinen går i svælget
Rører de ægtes læber,
rundt i tomgang
til natten er slut.

Nu ligger hun,
jordens irretesættelse,
græsset evigt grønt.
Det var bare muld.
Det er det stadig.

 © Jakob Kaul

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