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Courting Concupiscence and The Muse

ah, amativeness! why must spring always bring, incite, blossom—bloom, this full and bright, sprite! and ardent satyriasis of mine!

and to think that it is truly quite innocuous and natural, lust inclined to luxuriate in the splendor of the feral imagination, in the effusive luxury of pining epistles, dangerous liaisons, armed with the justification of tome upon tome of amorous letters exchanged to move and sway and swoon foolish lovers into being!

averse to the wan and inaffable belle who is too demure to fell and satiate this priapic occupation, i admit to a penchant for the chatoyant, iridescent, roan, ginger, effervescent and literary vixen who is shamelessly wanton and willing to produce the philter, inspire the music, satisfy the sybarite, venture wayward and upward and onward toward the forging of a life impressed with droll and idiosyncratic memory which make plebian dreams pale and envy upon comparison!

oh, fair conspirator! appear! materialize and pique my curiosity, allure with your waifish and wry guile, defy all the bloody rules of conformity, lie to me! even, if only for a moment of coeval empathy and innoxious amusement.

impress me with the wink of precocity, suck me (slurp) into the whirling velocity of that noetic vertigo that has me spinning in the synaptic wake of cerebral felicity, whirling in the warm and sudsy, gentle and frilly garment cycle of this eccentric washing machine of a mind of yours that cleanses us both of the besotting aggress of society, of homogenous ploys to purge us of sustaining variety and all the wonder of we (oui! ) the prodigy, the wunderkind, a rapscallion, and all those scallywags who we are apt to befriend and make mischief with.

well aware of the solecisms that others make, we gracefully saunter around them by making customs we call our own, absquatulating into the wilderness of our desires, we fire up the fates with impassioned makeshift rituals of late-nite ululations at the lune, scantily prancing, dancing in tune with the flow of Her estrus pulsating undertow, in white glowing gossamer gowns of mirth and frank incension, pillaging pretension and presumption and all the prejudices that bedraggle our daily lives.

bewitch me with a sobriquet which endears because it is far and away from the common cognomen, the given names that fear being “different.” confess to me that cardamon and chalky chocolat pique the palate, and arouse the senses, if not awake the voluptuary in you! tell me its true that you too read nabokov and dream of lepidoptera and the fluttering adolescent pangs that his maelstrom and babbling brook of words tends to stir, kerfuffle and evoke from the shag-rug memories of haphazardly soul searching and maturing youth.

tell me the truth. do you expiate through indulgence, ostracize temptation by giving in to callings from the wilde? have paroxysms of excitement upon seeing the majesty, the magnificence, awesome splendor of love and life that is rife and flourishes all about us, but which most miss because they are caught up in the banal obligations of their mediocre life? are you bemused by the manqués of others who writhe and whine and froth hapless, hopeless, pathetically in the wake of their bedeviled efforts, knowing that all the ballyhoo is superficial, and that it really is not so hard to just get up and try again. and that therein lies the making of grace.

are you fey? elfin, touched by a dark angel or pink elephant who urges you to engender the uncanny, liable to entertain eccentric notions, momentous occasion and delusional bouts of gleeful grandeur? do you at times believe there is nothing grander than your simple life? do you sometimes swagger in the luminous rays of supercilious days when few others understand your ingenuity and the bedazzling waze of your strife?

are your emotions of awe often times ineffable? but you are compelled to try and manifest them anyway? do you know the flow—the enchanting music that runs through the creative noggin, that scintillating endowment tucked wet and whet under and in the cradle and dome that once made rome and fellow city-states the efflorescing (fluorescing-florentine) bedrock of man’s cognitive renaissance and the hotbed of celestial conjecturing, aesthetic pioneering, cerebral-celebration? do you? do you? i do.

i do, i do, i do. and i want you, you my fellatiatingly palliative and elusive muse to find me—track me down, inspire me with a flurry of overwhelming tachycardia, suddenly spurred by the teasing sway of your tartan dirndl and a shameless display of golden melanin, allude with a nictitate and a girlish swagger, set bait with the desultory semaphore of nates that tempt my fate to delve into the abyss, and show me this—that you are the one—that genuine and capriciously-phun temptress whose laissez-faire gait hooks me into and onto the straight and narrow path that follows you, obsequiously, astray.

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