~Her Magic Leaves You Stumbling Drunk

[bone$aW]

"She is just a young woman", you tell yourself, but her beauty you can't understand. It is incomprehensible; it is impossible not to feel like a starving mutt with the truth beaten into you that you will never touch what every single cell in your body desires--that cruel fate and nervous ticks will forbid just one soul-saving kiss.
And you think that by silently admitting defeat that maybe it will make it easier, for then you can laugh and not feel like a creep.
But the coffee made you anxious and it's been so many hot nights with her image behind your eyes that it frustrates your heart to try and believe that she's just a person. A blonde haired, blue eyed, creamy and flawless-skinned angel christened Odessa.
Even knowing that your best friend has already laid with her on some scotch-soaked inconceivable pillow of ecstasy, your stubborn ego can't resist the fantasy--maybe she could love you too.
Yet, you know that women worship him as Eros, that he models, and embodies an undeniably mythic grace, so your instinct is to shrink down to a size that's stunning in the presence of such steep perfection, and submit to your reactive rejection of competition.
Maybe she will--
but his phone chimes and it takes you only 7.2 seconds to bore her. It's true: his painfully smooth face symmetrically commands fluttered feminine awe.
And when it's time for you to leave, you beg her with your stiff unhealthy body and awkward shoulders to make you feel right, like she understands your embarrassing fever.
Then that's when you realize she's seen it all before and she wont pardon you because you insulted her intelligence or she just wont ever know the grip she has on you.
You wish she will always remember you.
You wish she will forget everything about you.
You wish she was just a young woman, but she plays the fiddle with God in her eyes while spirits whisper in her throat. Her magic leaves you stumbling drunk, and you fall from grace.

 

[ChemicalBeauty]

You wish she was just a young woman, but she plays the fiddle with God in her eyes while spirits whisper in her throat. Her magic leaves you stumbling drunk, and you fall from grace.

Love it

 

[MynameisnotDeja]

Cool! :D

 

[invert]

Wow. How can your words be so utterly universal, and so completely devoid of cliche? Well, by being fucking clever beautiful poetry in prose, I guess. It resonated and transformed personal memories of equivalent states. First thread I looked at in this section, incidentally. I'm really impressed.

Particularly liked the subtle building of reversals and paradoxes throughout the piece, culminating in the stark and realistic paradox of the two lines before last:

You wish she will always remember you.
You wish she will forget everything about you.

 

[bone$aW]

"... poetry in prose...."--I like that. Thanks for your encouraging words of appreciation. I don't really like most poetry, partly because my mind processes images, ideas, and feelings in a more traditional way. Also, there are a lot of cliches to be found in poetry, and I really work on avoiding them--to conjure up a feeling or idea in an original way. I mean, why else would you want to read someone else describe the same fucking things that have been happening forever if they can't do it in a way you've never heard before?

 

[invert]

"... poetry in prose...."--I like that. Thanks for your encouraging words of appreciation.

My pleasure.

I don't really like most poetry, partly because my mind processes images, ideas, and feelings in a more traditional way. Also, there are a lot of cliches to be found in poetry, and I really work on avoiding them--to conjure up a feeling or idea in an original way. I mean, why else would you want to read someone else describe the same fucking things that have been happening forever if they can't do it in a way you've never heard before?

Comfort? Reassurance, maybe? To hear or read a familiar cliche is like hearing a familiar tune or eating a familiar meal. Alternatively, to be reminded by a cliche that what you are feeling now is not insane, peculiar to you, and insoluble; but rather, as you say, something that has been happening forever, and is a shared human experience - easy to forget that sometimes.

But comfort poetry (or comfort music, or comfort prose, indeed, for there's as much cliche there - at least - as in poetry, I think) doesn't nourish or extend or transform you.

One might mention comfort drugs, too, I guess... drugs that don't challenge but make everything okay, no questions asked.

Good poetry, though (good prose, like yours or, say, Iris Murdoch's or Margaret Atwood's; good music; good drugs) evokes new concepts or transforms old concepts, showing you something you know - so you can at least see it - but from such a strange perspective that you see into and beyond it.

I think maybe you've sampled a disproportionate quantity of bad (or comfort) poetry, 'cos there's plenty of uncliche poetry out there. I don't know... how about Sylvia Plath, for a start? Or Emily Dickinson? Or Walt Whitman, indeed (not a favourite of mine, but by no means a purveyor of mere comfort poetry)?

 

[Mehm]

if i had a dime for every time the cool hot chick went for the other guy....

my path is happy with the person who likes me. she's beautiful and excellent. i just had to wait a little while.