...of roses and Fannies...

I had, a few months ago, read an interesting collection of essays; a psychopathalogical response to the various writings of De Quincey, which captivated me for numerous journeys and quiet days. I had written a couple of poems in my own response to those, (as orchestrated by the original source material) that were left unfinished in disarray for weeks after their semi completion. It took the tidying of my room and personal documents to come across them again, redraft them, and now month's afterwards; present this one just now.

Even the greatest of poets

from our western world

had a single

and ample fixation,

though they’d veil their truths

in thin robes, like lilies

with a perfumed aurora

alluring as all

the flowers of the wild-

they were twee with their words,

as most would see it now

but their sweet tongues

and keen minds

were never eclipsed

by such, largely bold, lasciviousness.

Yet still,

they dreamed of the kiss

and the cunt.

The lips, in bloom, and a drinkable lust

like blood,

made more beautiful by the forsaken

thorn of divide-

for when the blood is let

the beloved makes their morbid bed with death

and leaves the lover somnambulate

until what might make them unite.

Lest we forget De Quincey

and his inspired fancy

that paradise be full

of ‘…roses and Fannies.’