Erotica by Will Crimson
- The holidays have robbed me, but at least I’m posting something I almost gave up on. This was originally written as straight prose, rather than free verse, but I was inspired by D.H. Lawrence’s Figs to follow the form, if not the spirit. I don’t think it compares to his. Lawrence’s verse is beautifully evocative, full of sense and sensation, whereas my own doesn’t lend itself to that kind of evocation. I’m going to try again though, and the next will do better. Enjoy.
she dreamed she walked on dusty roads.
descended and broke
the fall of black leaves and the black branches of trees and
were like shattered glass.
don’t hurt me!
and they held her without hurting her though their wings
were like knives.
she was open for anyone to see
only boys saw her
who, until they become men, lie on their backs
awaiting the angel whose wings will shiver and burst descending.
desired an answer.
longing for an unknown heft
to return and anchor her weightless center to earth and season
they brought her to a roofless abbey
grass and wildflower;
where cocoons shaped by
the contours of hips and breasts hung from vaulting stone.
spun from light cast through their wings.
upside down by her ankles;
and her toes,
then feet, then calves and thighs were turned inside their silk.
a clear drop slips out
of her —
a terrible, strange and pleasurable surrender —
her belly, breasts, and to the tip
of her tongue, thrust out and downward, coiling like her spine.
is like glass whose iridescent
bulb grows larger, rounder and heavier
it is picked
carefully, like a fruit is picked, from the tip of her tongue.
closed her neck and eyes
the pendulum of hips and breasts were all that revealed she was
and they slowly
the drop into the body of the cocoon;
the only recess —
as small, as subtle, as necessary — remaining and a girl’s;
the rearward lift of her slender
bent and doubled — and
into her taut and resistant groan until the bulb opened her
they left her,
spinning, unable to expel the drop that
smoothly sank into her womb to settle, there, in inevitable moisture;
she dreamed she was
world somewhere in a world
lived — a little girl, a woman, a lover, a mother — and forgot
the wisp of the bulb that still protruded
the rearward thrust of her opening — between two fingers
and the bulb burst inside her and she
and the mighty wings of a woman unfolded and burst the cocoon;
inhaled and her arms, legs, and wings spread wide —
filled the empty window with the stain of her wings and the colors of her
~ William Crimson • December 14 2014