Bedroom Tales – Published in Vita Brevis

Come, red carnations stain the sheets
And candles flicker in the heavy silver
Red wine is breathing in the crystal glasses
Fine lace is flowing in the alcoves like a river.

Come, watch the shadows playing on the wall
When aromatic air is resting on the pillows
The Siamese is purring in her basket
And bowls are filled with reddish tamarillo.

Read the entire poem here

 

Hellenistic Reverie — Vita Brevis

Submitted by short-prose-fiction

 

Caressed together by the waters of Corinth

Into the darkest forests chasing statuary nymphs

The decadence of Hellenistic love

Blissfully raining tears from above.

 

“The condo of the virgin” sitting empty

The goddess long dissolved into the néant

You softly reading Hebrew texts in Greek

The painful comedy of life on sale this week.

 

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“The condo of the virgin” refers to the Parthenon, temple dedicated to Athena who was a virgin goddess.

 

 

 

via Hellenistic Reverie — Vita Brevis

 

Clara: The Power of Water #Glass Lovers

A velvety evening sky was settling over us. Angelo and I sat in beach chairs overlooking the water. Miguel was lying at my feet, sand in his hair, his face still, glistening in the dusk.  A shy breeze was coming from the south.

Angelo turned his piercing eyes toward me, and broke the silence:

“Here is where you went wrong, Clara.”

Oh no! What sense was there in going again and again over the past? Didn’t the three of us talk ten thousand times about what happened? Didn’t we resurrect ghosts night after night, only to bury them, deep down in our memories, at the first sign of dawn?

Angelo did not stop.

“Clara, you have always mistaken reality for your imagination. Funny, when one thinks that most people mistake their imagination for reality. But not you, Clara, not you!”

I recoiled. It sounded like a judgment, and Angelo was never judgmental to me. My muscles tensed, my sight blurred. I said nothing.

Angelo continued:

“First, it was that small shop on Rue de Vaugirard: the marionette shop. It was there where Jacques first touched your thigh covered by that black silky skirt of yours, Clara. I know you think that that never happened. Yet, at a certain level, you must have known that Jacques was falling in love with you, but you decided that it was just your imagination. You convinced yourself that you imagined everything.”

In one second I was on my feet trembling. Was I screaming?

“You two, I have no idea what you are talking about! That touch never happened! I said it ten thousand times. Jacques never touched me. Jacques never wrote to me the letter that you got, god knows from where. I have no idea who wrote it! It wasn’t him. Jacques and I were never in that hotel room! I’ve never seen that hotel room! That night Jacques was not coming to see me! I never called him! It’s not me that I am imagining things, it’s you! And you Miguel, if you believed that Jacques….”

I stopped. For a second, all of us remained still. Slowly Miguel rose from the sand. He open his arms to embrace me.

It was too late. I was already thrown into my memories, chained again to my past, tortured by its unbearable painful voices.

I ran toward the ocean. The salty water glued my dress to my body, caressed my burning thighs, wiped my century-old tears.  In the dark, I went deeper and deeper looking for the bottom. Few seconds, and I felt Miguel’s body wrapping around mine. His arms were pulling me up.

I started coughing. The night air was penetrating my burning lungs.  I was back on the beach: Miguel’s hands caressing my wet hair, Angelo’s distraught face above me.

Miguel whispered: “It never happened Clara, it never happened, my love.”

And yet something terrible must have happened, before Jacques left Paris, something that was deeply buried in my memory, something that I was refusing to acknowledge. Was Jacques coming to see me that ghastly night? Was he?

A horrifying thought came to me. I started shivering. Miguel, Angelo, and I would not be put in different heavens or hells. We were going to the same place, so we can continue to obsess over and over about Jacques’ imagined love for me, and that dreadful fated night that changed our lives forever!


Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers.”

@short-prose-fiction

 

the deluge

 

Candles blown by your own tears

Scents of lilac in the bloom

Books resting silently unopened

Icons whispering into the room.

 

The poet of the city long forgotten

The beauty of the temple savagely chopped

The ghastly time of the deluge has come

The ancient clocks now fatally have stopped.

 

What? You’re not crying anymore?

You are confusing me and poor Noah in his ark

Please cry another minute for I want

To kiss your tears dancing en avant.

 

 

 

 

 

we’re burning we’re falling

We’re burning

We’re falling

Through eons of time

No matter the pain

You’re holding me tight.

 

We’re burning

We’re falling

What god fated us

Forever to burn

Forever to love.

 

We’re burning

We’re falling

Mermaids in your way

No matter the chant

You’re holding me tight.

 

We’re floating

We’re rising

From eons of time

No matter the ending

You’re holding me tight.

 

 

don’t wait for me please find another lover

 

Don’t wait for me

Please find another lover

I’m riding camels with the Bedouins

Watching the orange sunset coiling

Like Cleopatra’s snake over the desert

We’ll enter Alexandria by morning

The day Mark Anthony committed suicide.

 

Don’t wait for me

Please find another lover

I’m in the Île de la Cité on Friday the thirteenth

The Friday which forever will be feared

The smell of burning flesh is choking me

The Knights Templar are shedding tears.

 

Don’t wait for me

Please find another lover

To dress your heart in Gaultier perfumes

The ghosts of your ethereal caresses

Will murmur melancholic poems in the fumes

Rising eternally in spirals

On the forgotten lover’s tomb.

 

 


All paintings featured on this blog belong to me. I hope you enjoy some of them.