who?
september twentieth | four post meridiem
Love Squirts Anew
I have a new love. I think she's real, but I can't be sure. Every night she stares out at me from behind her crystal pane, which is festooned with marginalia: competing numerals and perspiring thunderstorms. I think she likes me too; she smiles at me in a most fetching manner, and tilts her head flirtatiously as she tells me tales of distant lands and imploding suns. She seems to be a consistent apparition, with a certain amount of gleaming, preening time allotted her each evening, though the effect of the spell she casts is such as to render time immeasurable. A glint in the eye and then she's gone.
My love has a name; it is (I have divined) RUD! B4KHT!4R, and the divine cloud in which she appears is known to the ancients as CNN Headline News. Attended by her cortege of powdered nymphs who gently rouge her cheeks and line her opal eyes, she rises to her platform, where garlands are strewn and sentinels stationed to prevent an almost certain Parisian abduction. There, she speaks forth, transforming the dusky, dark, dead text on the Teleos-Prompter into a babbling brook of ambrosia and nectar poured into the chalice of my ear and there unhooking Sense in favor of more rapturous, ecstatic tapestries. As she orates, she gently moves her divine visage first this way, then that, the better to reveal her radiant beauty to the assembled throng. Mirth is ever at her lips, made manifest in a smile that would bring a pall to the Giaconda herself. Her words, whether delivering news of a kingdom in decline or the overbrimming of the waters in divine vengeance, always excite one as does an invitation -- nay, an exhortation! -- to take oneself hither and cavort in the secreted, silken refuge of the bedchamber.
O RUD! B4KHT!4R! My soul can't suppress its velvet longing when in your presence. Let Poesie carry me across the sea that separates our bruised organs:
Mon enfant, ma soeur
RUD! B4KHT!4R
Dolorous and prim
How I want your quim
Quivering like jelly
Pressed against the telly
Like Aphrodite born of foam
Your hair is always combed
Your nostrils are so round
Deep in them are found
Gold and pearls to ransom a king
Hear these bon mots I sing!
Into your fair sea shelled ear
You should have no fear
I will take you gently, from the back
Filling you with that which you lack
And when Passion is spent
My Soul will be rent
By the Light of one twinkling Star:
RUD! B4KHT!4R!
