Psyche

She trembles in her shawl,
Cigarette in tow;
Writing, withdrawing, and
Ever Beautiful.

She is a drawing in motion,
Created in the image of my
Heart;
Unknown?

No, she is Psyche, tied to no man,
Independent to her need,
Dependent to her want;
She is the opiate of my desire.

My Psyche is strangely familiar,
Resplendent in womanly
Glory!
How now can I be of service?

Psyche is a gift from the gods of love
And chance would have her be
A friend, a lover
Of people?
Of me?

Her psychology feeds me,
Necessitating response;
Such is my plight and my
Soul?

It thirsts in a dry realm,
Where normal is unfit and the fittest,
Are mere images of themselves;
Images of Psyche?

Yes!

She is a pleasant dream;
A reality attainable through her
Permission?

I tremble at her presence and long
To know her, yes, to know her.
In knowing Psyche I can really know…
What?

Part the second

Where comes my help?
My help comes from Psyche,
That patron Muse of love,
Sweet as honey
And
Passionate ambrosia!

She suggests to the man
Of laughter-
Silence!
The gods need to think!
Does genius reside in inquisition?

The answers are to be found in
Spontaneity!
Ambush our hearts oh gods of chance
And time!

Batter my soul!
Psyche’s tears replenish
My thirst;
My hunger;
My own demise;

Yet wisdom is mine to wield,
Or at least mine to apply.
To what?
To the praise of Folly!

Psyche is charmingly aloof;
Existing in mystery;
Enshrouded in enigma;
Yet, I am her sleuth!

Oh! Psyche let me into your forbidden realm;
Trust your angels,
Feelings and Instinct,
Aflamèd with fire, messengers of
Grace?

Be my salvation;
Be my reality;
Be my fiction;
Be mine damn you!

Part the Third

Psyche is falsehood’s bane!
She is truest purple,
And my envy is true green!

Her love of color?
Deepest black!

My words affect her heart,
The blood that pumps it,
Sacred, youthful,
Perfect!

My Psyche has left,
A void, chasm-deep,
In need of filling,
Her Person, the balm.

My wound?

Stayed by her curled lip;
A smile ensues, or is it
My presumption that she laughs,
But silently?

Will such happiness return?
Will inordinate affection
Retire?

From her smile she melts me;
From her voice, the flowers bow;
Clovers, four-leafed bend and part,
From her touch, simply
Electric!

Her hands, fingers, warm,
Inviting me in.
I am to be a gentle man;
Her fellowship-becoming!

We are to meet, talk, and hope
The fates of chance return us
Similar grace;
Caught up in the moment?

No! Such passions…last
And last….and last!
What if we were the only two?
Soul survivors on this blue orb?

Our planet, a playground of pastel beauty:

Blue;
Gray;
White;
Green;
Desert?

Our selfish lust would populate
Our priorities, yielding much!

End in the beginning.
For me, Psyche?
These three exist then:
Desire;
Hope;
Affection?

But like our poets of old,
The greatest of these is…Psyche;
Her love, my desire and my

Privilege.

Part the Fourth

I caught a glimpse of the night
Glow worm ‘till the end;
Psyche is my Beatrice as
I am her Dante!

Then terrorize my theory:
Foster my Foucault,
Battle my Bataille,
Laugh at my Levinas,
And Synchronize my Significant
Monkey’s sycophant?

Our music, of high affinity,
Shared likes in need.
Our chorus, much like Orpheus’s
Lyre to the masses?

No!

It is a pliant sound of rhythmic heartbeats;
It is the flow of a mighty rushing,
A mighty, mighty, deluge of expressed

Droplets?

Each framed in fearful symmetry;
Captured, captive, and catalogued
In the annals of my memory;
Oh! My Psyche do not let go of such
Heavenly hell.

We are mere pieces to
Puzzling, riddling, primal movements
Of which my pen is servant to the ink gods,
And they, in turn,
Subject to the pages…

I will immortalize you in such
Pages, stemming from a heart, though
Scabbed and calloused by experience;
Beats for more expression!

Psyche’s body, milk-white
Supple?

I can only imagine, but she did touch my
Hand, which followed after my heart-hard!

I hope to touch that which is beyond her flesh;
Spurring hope and blush in other, deeper recesses of her
Person.

Her nose, quaint, cute, up-turned only
To ward off the weak of heart;
I am of the persistent clan though,
And in such an aim I would be the cheese,
She the beauty mouse, but with a razor-like
Bite!

My mind races, faster, faster, with more resolve
Than Herculean Achilles at the battles of Troy!
I await my next visit to
Il Paradiso?

The Italian heaven, scent of my
Psyche.

Part the Fifth

Is there such a thing as a
Continuum?

I await Psyche to find out.
Until then:

Drink,
Eat,
Shit,
And be merry doing it all over again.