Monday, September 15, 2008

you have asked, sweet lisa,
to know why i like you,
why you enflame me in scarlet,
and rob my treasury of reason.
you want to know the source
of these lava-storms, this explo-bliss,
this passionate mind-flight into etheria,
so i will tell you in the only
language i feel comfortable using:

know firstly, lisa dulcèzza,
that it is your extreme beauty
that has most riled my stasis into earthquake,
your niagrum that has caused
nearly all my soldiers to desert their posts,
your helenèska that utterly caused
my numerous interior warring factions
to pacify themselves and become friends.
i had long known of beauty's vodkanized grip,
sweet lisa, had long been aware
of its ability to affamish the victim,
pillage all of his sleep,
then leave him derelicted in a waste-desert,
there to transmogrify and atrophy,
for i had been one who often haunted
the webs folds, recesses, caverns, locales,
dens, forums, chambers and mazes,
and there i sought love,
there i petitioned venus to heal me,
there i begged aphrodizjum
to strip me of my ice,
and deliver me from the freeze-jail,
and i had always been so amazed
that a profile of a woman
whose artistic tastes, concern for
human rights and politics resembled
mine but was abandoned by helen's
surmazing transblessing of the face,
was so much less able to render me
mad with mind-fire,
crimson with rage-blood,
and bellicose with storm-iron.
i deeply resented the fact
that it was pulchrome that whiskified me,
davincium that electro-split my soul,
and the sistine that shredded my heart,
for i ever an ardent student of the mind,
wanted the intellect to be that bright spasmo,
the written word to subdue and nullify me,
and the book to morph me into a lion,
but instead once again it has been beauty
that has gunned me, choked me with serpent,
myself surrounded by the howling coyote.
once more am i beauty's slave,
once more does she compel me into siberia,
there the mammoths of irrationality my master,
there the gnawing of the bone.

it is also true, sweet lisa,
that i by all means loathe
those beautiful women
seduced by hollywoods' cheap glamour,
self-absorbed, narcissized,
their eyes ever inward looking.
you on the contrary, lisa rainboweska,
are one of those rare jordanian women
possessed of a master's degree,
in love with science, study,
genetics, biology, facts,
reality's convoluted maze-twists,
life's hodge-podge of contradiction.
you thus respect hard work,
you bow before duty's altar,
you heed obligation's call
whereas others dance to the wine-song
and thrill-quake amid the orgy.
thus, sweet lisa, you are a sun-blessed
admixture of beauty and intellect,
in the one valley the shine-glitter
hovers above you,
the silvo-angels obey you,
macro-gold enlusters and embellishes you,
in the other valley it is duty,
concentration, focus, reading,
industry, intelligence and wisdom
that govern your steps,
and pilots your ships and planes.
on the one moon, lisa thrillèzza,
one can see in you michelangelo's pieta,
the majestic fabulo of angel falls,
the unrivaled mind-twist of
the sydney opera-house,
on the other moon,
you harbor a deep love for truth,
you consume yourself in science.
dna, rna, nucleotides,
chromosomes, proteins,
resonate in your ken,
dispatch through your mail service,
their vocabulary all throughout
the chambers of your mind echoing.

the most necessary component of beauty,
lisa pyrocantha, however is the aura.
on paper one can reflect the pyramids of giza,
they can arise in an euphony of cloud,
they can recall canyons, mountain-chains,
the snow-capped majestica of the himalayas,
all the stars in the galaxy within them,
yet in person they can be
a discordant gong of tin,
all sorts of rust around their edges,
themselves akin to the hyena.
your aura, lisa rozalea, in reversemento,
is a bright symphony of emerald,
a wild concerto of hummingbirds,
from it radiate stars, comets, tornados,
hurriflames, tsunamis, macro-swelters.
when i see you i see not simply
a thirty one year old woman,
endowed with a master's degree,
her hair as black as a moonless night
her skin as bright as gold-bliss and diamond,
i also see kind emoceans,
i see peace and salaam burgeoning,
i see charity echoing,
i see maternity pulsating,
i see thanksgiving radiating,
i see loveliness emerging from the deep,
i see good-will shimmerating
in a brilliant delecto-bath of joyum,
i see gratitude showering gold
upon the humble peasant,
i see the tranquility of the swan
floating on a placid pond,
no fear molesting him with knife.

it must also be said, lisa endazzlìca,
that you appear to me as extremely vulnerable,
that is to say, possessed of painful emotions,
numerous spiritual predators encircling you.
to be bound to someone who is self-sufficient,
in no need of complement, solid,
is certainly much less fulfilling than
they who are eternally hounded by the human tornado,
warlocked by spiritual bludgeon.
to be one's twenty-four hour doctor
has long been a dream of mine, lisa rosèska,
to be responsible for their deliverance
from excrusho, cut and gnaw,
to rescue them from the wart-men,
herself once slithered with mental oil,
spiritually badgered, all sorts
of mucused goat-dogs harassing her,
but now fully radiant and surreal,
now wholly illuminating the pain-vale.
that then is what i envision for you,
lisa splashed with fire,
no more entrenched in interminable night,
nor suffocated by customs and standards,
but instead halofied with felicia,
macro-brilliant with cheer and star,
yourself eagerly embracing the world.

1 Comments:

Anonymous whisperer said...

Lisa is very lucky to have someone like you write a poetry for her and to praise her beauty. Kyle, does Lisa knows about your blog?

9:17 AM  

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