the lost man chronicles
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her sabre—a keen wit, a penchant for ribald banter
(courting the muse, III)

amidst the whirl of the love-lust vertigo, i search for The One who is in possession of her Self, whose cranial wealth professes the precocious wonder of a once-was little girl, whose methodical chattering now unfurls the secrets she’s been gathering for tens of wayward years; a coquette whose ears perk with the fluttering of butterflies, whose eyes see that which is not ordinarily seen, whose senses are extraordinarily keen and continue learning despite the deadening experience of lessons earned at the expense of erring and sullying exploration.

noetically acute, she can be absent-minded as her fey focus compels her to delve into detail-grasping ventures until either her curiosity is satiated or her attention is enticed elsewhere. her need to know, also prods a certain impatience with the sloth and lack of energy and disrespectful ebullience of others, for it is her personal acedia to bare witness to such apathy. Because, for her, every moment, every minim of opportunity and euphonic ringing of fate, is ripe for the taking and the making of a destiny which is droll and eccentrically different.

to her, perspective is everything, which is why her spirit is always oriented toward the sun. her bright disposition is a magnet that attracts all, repels none, and occasionally burns an envious few. often sanguinaceous, her sanguine outlook often provides solar solace too, as well as uplifting enlightenment to those in solemn need. indeed, she is wise because she is worldly, and worldly because she is wise.

she is also quite salubrious, sprightly wholesome simply because she heeds her basic needs and is not beholden or bothered by the frivolous and inflated standards of others. she supersizes nothing and her weight is not a hefty matter, for her mind is fit. her salutary lifestyle befits the sanguine vigor which regulates the balance between a dionysian diet and rounds of ablutionary austerity.

unapologetically a provocateur and apt to be aberrant, she challenges mortals to question the purpose of their existence, urging mere men to make their montage of moments more meaningful. her intuition uncanny, her vision clear, her insight into others eerily tolerates the endearing antics of swine and their sordid horde of tawdry motivations; her sensations pique and synapses stretch out with each languorous whetting of a deliberately lingering finger (“come on now, tell me, tell me you love me…”)—a nymph at work as well as play, she swoons, swaggers and sways and allows these and other licentious thoughts to wantonly carry her through the day.

her repartee treacherously disposes of those who dare verbally spar with her—her banter mercilessly truncating others’ jabs into mere persiflage, they having naively erred by challenging this maestro of words. her sharpest sabre is a keen wit and a penchant for ribald banter. her astute swath divides the gritty triticum from trite chaff, leaving only farinaceous aliment for the mind in its wake. she is gracefully amused by all the fools who haplessly ridicule, futilely attempting to whitewash their noetic shortcomings.

organically sensual, she makes even the simple act of ablution alluring, her graceful movements underwater besmirching the mind of even the purest witness. a terrestrial siren, she blazes a fiery pandora’s will with a prehensile thrill of mischief to defile for the sake of possession. she believes that de vez en cuando, quand avec lui qui a le sensuel savoir faire, when making love and they become unaware of all else about them, there exists an ineffable bliss entre ces deux, between these two amantes teribles, that makes their union sacral. unafraid of the satyr or of her own elfin and sprite inclinations, she is not timorous in the company of Sapphic provocations, willing to entertain them in exploratory fashion, delving, if need be, into the saporific unknown. for ultimately, she believes her body, her desire, her spirit are—her own.

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