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Sands traverse oceans to envelop me within the coercion of a dream of Egypt as I search the turquoise of the medallion in my hands to match the gray-blue of his eyes. Too long have I willed for him to sail the Atlantic, stride through the door, and sweep me from haunting this view of London. But for now I am left to my own image and a pane, so I muster the meat of my palm within this sleeve of lace to brush it across the glass for a clearer look, yet my efforts have revealed no more than engorged eyelids reflected… manacles of me. Behest of self, maniacal I am slated to perform involuntary tedium, hopeful to unlock deeper meaning within each hieroglyph, once so purposefully etched in a semblance of bronze. I long to surrender to the warmth of the taste of iron caught in his sights over a tomb blanketed in gold. I will come for you, Daughter of Heaven and Earth. Spontaneous peristalsis of phrase connects with the drop gurgling through the candid quiet and I wonder if the image that now reflects would indulge him, or if he might ****** the lock of dark hair that he cropped from my neck with the skill of an assassin when our paths first crossed in Cairo. Time has softened the image I hold of him; his eyes are satin, burning like a flag still waving as his army advances over our forbidden dig. There is something sensation-like in downfall… copious saline embodies the fractal curve. I found no scrolls of the Book of the Dead. Here in my olive skin I rot like a peach that’s been left in a satchel forgotten to dust of the ages disturbed by picks and axes that strike with the determination of discovery. A peach, never to be savored; never to nourish or to pleasure, or be trampled by insects and carried off in pieces to the hollow of the ant queen. My eyelids are hard to turn like wet pages forced to envision a river that is not the Nile where I am held within the binds of propriety, corsetted, bustled, and locked out of Egypt dammed from the salvation of even an intermittent Dutchman’s finger by dunes and shores and footfalls to find words that stream in liquid resonance where firm succumbs to self and I can feel passion writhing through my intangibles. Thusly, clouds form over a city that blackens and distorts the way a river's reflection of my face would ripple from the plunging body of a dove, belly-up, encased in wings, and two thousand miles from him. Arousal is a moccasin seethed in spasms of peristalsis and musculature toward the beckoning pulse of breast. Any hope for contact collapses into flesh, venom sheathes each corpuscle, and a woken neck flails in judgment before the truth in his eyes under the shadow of the Great Pyramid where Ramses II lies supine across the Turin Papyrus. I imagine the other side of me and where she might reflect when all that there is in such a study contributes to my wanting to wreak my bellied freedom beneath crevices that sink as crevices do in downward angled layers to withstand the ages. Dark hair gleams in contrast, more for strip of scalp than the trickle of red down my back. Breached like sugar that candid— starburst wings of Monarchs dripping ancient like sunsets over magenta and milky mauve in the reeds— my ankles revealed and inverted to the sky they glean, yet... his arrival is delayed when the pistol ***** three times. The still of my breast compounds with the steady union of the dark, and somewhere denial flows with the sands. So cycles change, like a fable for Eternal. “Daughter of Heaven and Earth,” written by Dionne Charlet, appears in print in Cairo by Gaslight, the second anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Books in the series include New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie. Look for the upcoming anthology Paris by Gaslight, which will feature a poem of the same title by Dionne.
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Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
dionne-charlet
Daughter of Heaven and Earth
Sands traverse oceans to envelop me within the coercion of a dream of Egypt as I search the turquoise of the medallion in my hands to match the gray-blue of his eyes. Too long have I willed for him to sail the Atlantic, stride through the door, and sweep me from haunting this view of London. But for now I am left to my own image and a pane, so I muster the meat of my palm within this sleeve of lace to brush it across the glass for a clearer look, yet my efforts have revealed no more than engorged eyelids reflected… manacles of me. Behest of self, maniacal I am slated to perform involuntary tedium, hopeful to unlock deeper meaning within each hieroglyph, once so purposefully etched in a semblance of bronze. I long to surrender to the warmth of the taste of iron caught in his sights over a tomb blanketed in gold. I will come for you, Daughter of Heaven and Earth. Spontaneous peristalsis of phrase connects with the drop gurgling through the candid quiet and I wonder if the image that now reflects would indulge him, or if he might ****** the lock of dark hair that he cropped from my neck with the skill of an assassin when our paths first crossed in Cairo. Time has softened the image I hold of him; his eyes are satin, burning like a flag still waving as his army advances over our forbidden dig. There is something sensation-like in downfall… copious saline embodies the fractal curve. I found no scrolls of the Book of the Dead. Here in my olive skin I rot like a peach that’s been left in a satchel forgotten to dust of the ages disturbed by picks and axes that strike with the determination of discovery. A peach, never to be savored; never to nourish or to pleasure, or be trampled by insects and carried off in pieces to the hollow of the ant queen. My eyelids are hard to turn like wet pages forced to envision a river that is not the Nile where I am held within the binds of propriety, corsetted, bustled, and locked out of Egypt dammed from the salvation of even an intermittent Dutchman’s finger by dunes and shores and footfalls to find words that stream in liquid resonance where firm succumbs to self and I can feel passion writhing through my intangibles. Thusly, clouds form over a city that blackens and distorts the way a river's reflection of my face would ripple from the plunging body of a dove, belly-up, encased in wings, and two thousand miles from him. Arousal is a moccasin seethed in spasms of peristalsis and musculature toward the beckoning pulse of breast. Any hope for contact collapses into flesh, venom sheathes each corpuscle, and a woken neck flails in judgment before the truth in his eyes under the shadow of the Great Pyramid where Ramses II lies supine across the Turin Papyrus. I imagine the other side of me and where she might reflect when all that there is in such a study contributes to my wanting to wreak my bellied freedom beneath crevices that sink as crevices do in downward angled layers to withstand the ages. Dark hair gleams in contrast, more for strip of scalp than the trickle of red down my back. Breached like sugar that candid— starburst wings of Monarchs dripping ancient like sunsets over magenta and milky mauve in the reeds— my ankles revealed and inverted to the sky they glean, yet... his arrival is delayed when the pistol ***** three times. The still of my breast compounds with the steady union of the dark, and somewhere denial flows with the sands. So cycles change, like a fable for Eternal. “Daughter of Heaven and Earth,” written by Dionne Charlet, appears in print in Cairo by Gaslight, the second anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Books in the series include New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie. Look for the upcoming anthology Paris by Gaslight, which will feature a poem of the same title by Dionne.
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Plumped rouge with pigment her lip fills to graze the ******** intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade autografted with ocular detachment should a Marquis wish to harness the song of the morning within a bandolier of Seine to ensnare any bustled Persephone gilted by discharge of ions into a ménage of torment through the Porte des Lions. Hers is the tincture of doxy caramelized and debrided of naivety, empowered by the eve of invention, swollen to curves and grounded in Paris. Illumination defies pervasion down to every gear and pulley she has hushed through mechanization and lulled by steam, swaging a cacophony of flickers encased in glass by the Lady’s watch, where every rivet of her plate glisters silken reverberation in cascade, elegant, caged, and towering, outspoken in silence, ever challenging the Champ de Mars. "Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
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Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
dionne-charlet
Paris by Gaslight
Plumped rouge with pigment her lip fills to graze the ******** intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade autografted with ocular detachment should a Marquis wish to harness the song of the morning within a bandolier of Seine to ensnare any bustled Persephone gilted by discharge of ions into a ménage of torment through the Porte des Lions. Hers is the tincture of doxy caramelized and debrided of naivety, empowered by the eve of invention, swollen to curves and grounded in Paris. Illumination defies pervasion down to every gear and pulley she has hushed through mechanization and lulled by steam, swaging a cacophony of flickers encased in glass by the Lady’s watch, where every rivet of her plate glisters silken reverberation in cascade, elegant, caged, and towering, outspoken in silence, ever challenging the Champ de Mars. "Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
Continue reading...
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