By Ron Koppelberger
Rendered in pleasant ignoble pastures of escape, the bachelor yielded the temptation to cleave to sensual creams and flaxen flowers, to rubies in rose rush and eyes of emerald allure. He gripped the counter and growled, “Must not regress, MUST NOT REGRESS!” He crossed his legs and pounded his bosom, “ARRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA!” he screamed. Labors of love and scented bouquets in amazing coquet danced like sweet savory transport and dream before his bulging eyes.
“Oh succulent mistress, seductions of mascara and rose tincture, tempt me in chaste realms of restraint!” He repeated in frayed consciousness and desire, the mazy mists circled him with passionate possessions of promise. Cut to an end, a postponed fate, a snug umbra and womb, an alien rapture, he conjured the intrinsic art of blazon tethers and strange confines as he separated the curtains, an entertaining masquerade, a drama in horizons of azure and ash, the ash of a smoldering ruin and a dismal abandonment, he was in summons to the ship's dilemma. A broken transport, the refuge of astronauts and pilgrims searching the new vistas. The ship was beyond repair, smashed and scattered, destroyed by design, perhaps by gods design.
The brood stood outside the small vagabond shelter, milling about in the grainy dust of a barren planet. They numbered in the thousands.
He dreamed and dared a glance, beauty and hell, frail yield in the form of a maw. A crowd of women in waiting suspicions of pregnant desire, and yet. . .their teeth, beneath the full pouting lips, desolate sandpaper flesh. . . it looked so soft. . . breathing smoke. . . and were those flames coming from their mouths? It couldn’t! “Oh God!” he moaned. They waited with open arms in vast chains of claim to his seed, to his heirs.
They sang the song of sirens and hydras in cobwebs of mystery and illusion, the witches of the rift between earth and far distant planets.
The bachelor sighed and opened the door to slavery.
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I began writing when I was ten years old, my grandparents gave me my first typewriter. I have written 102 books of poetry and 18 novels over the past four or five years.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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