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Literature and Ideas


Memories linger of her formless
curves, like thoughts of warm tyres swerving
somewhere down endless, unfinished roads.
It hurts to be this crass, when I
could talk of charm and her caress.
But, having said such things as this,
attentive breasts
and similar sorts
of suchlike flesh
have always beckoned
the lustless, the world-
worn, the warrior-king.
The dauphin, too.

Other things perhaps
best left unsaid.
Every creature tends
to tristesse. And this turns
all the truer
after sex.




I liked your nocturne.

I liked the images you conceived which coincide with the fatalistic tone of the poem.

The inevitable grief that overcome us when the realization of a desire leaves us with the need to devise a new one, if we can.



Many thanks for the kind and thoughtful words. Desire may die but it tends, Lazarus-like, to reawaken…

If, by the way, you have any favoured pieces of poetry — whether recondite or renowned — that you'd like to direct my attention towards, you're always most welcome, as I do sometimes translate from Spanish.

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