the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
earnestly, patiently, wantonly seeking (a different kind of muse)
or any woman who is willing
to stretch her imagination,
seduce and be seduced by words,
tell me tall tales and lie languidly, if only to amuse me,
write droll epistles meandering on everything form peanuts to lightening bolts,
exchange strange and exotic small gifts and present them bare and brazenly, with nothing but a silky roseate ribbon tied loosely about the voluptuous curve of her hips,
and take spontaneous skinny dips and someday striptease on my birthday (late November). should you find yourself careening about the possibilities conjured by these words rein me in! rain on me, shower me with love and lust and all those brilliant, sparkly charms that are liable to disarm any metropolitan-bred cynic or bashful boy humbled by love.
reign over me with your bewitching smile and the wild wile of your seductive spontaneity! sing and laugh and haunt me while we are apart with the lingering and lovely mind-sparkling you tend to trigger with the idiosyncratic quirks of your brilliant personality!
In other words, en otras palabras, mots, parole, WŲrter, palavras. hell, letís just be happy together.
make my mind overflow with honey, sugah, and other sweet thoughts of you. deluge me! with all those droll witticisms youíre yearning to win and woo me with. swoon me till iím woozy!
make me buzz! Whisper. pique me. slowly brush your soft scopa against me while looking back with those bumblebee eyes, and with that oh, so sly, wry-wringing, smile of yours, all to assure a certain swelling of my fascination with you, inspiring me to express another furious mad-flash of love and creativity.
the art of living the art of love