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Confessions (eddy styx)
Confessions
She is Venus
watched from a distance,
making merry
with her soiled sisters,
buying rounds of mulled wine
in the shabby brothel,
fortifying resolve
against the dangers
of chilly night.
Finishing my tot of gin,
I place thempty vessel
on the scarred
wooden bar top
as the soft smile
of a refined gentleman
plays at the corners of my lips.
Anticipating departure,
I cross the room to the door.
Down the street in shadows,
my carriage sits,
awaiting my return.
From this vantage,
sitting in darkened comfort,
sexual appetite whetted
by the keenness of wanting.
Expectation of night’s events to come
rewarded by her exodus
from the rundown tavern’s
dingy light.
She bids her friends farewell,
going their separate ways.
Pulling her shawl closer
about her shoulders,
she surrenders herself
to the cold, velvet fingers
of evening,
slowly slipping
into the firm grasp of night.
The veins running through
her soft pale throat and neck,
fluttering like tiny white birds
anxious to take flight.
Her many charms,
highlighted in the dim glow
of a gas streetlamp.
The hard line of her jawbone
softened by the thinning,
yellow light
and shadows cast
upon the cruel,
cobbled street.
She saunters slowly,
unsteadily down the avenue,
an attitude
of intoxicated affability.
So instructed,
my driver follows
down the street.
Almost upon her,
taking up my kit,
deftly exiting the cab
pursuit from behind
overtakes with my stride…
exuding good nature,
a firmly taken arm
guides her to the alley
with its present
of a generous coin
where she grins,
drunkenly pleased,
raising her skirts,
exposing invitingly,
drawing me in.
From the folds of my cloak,
my tool is presented,
a glinting flash
at her throat,
bathing in her life’s fire.
Her scream drowns in a gurgle,
as I dispatch her protest.
My scalpel become manhood,
quickly plundering
her tainted treasures.
I am gripped
by raging hands of desire,
seized and firmly held
by my needs.
Still echoing in my ears,
her death rattle
reminiscent
of a harsh laugh.
Once again
I’m completely alive,
revived
(and she is immortalized,)
By the true “prince of darkness,”
holding court with my whores!
Review Request (Intensity):
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction):
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Last few words:
will make the other changes due to Wesley's suggestions later. Thanks Wesley!
Editing stage:
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Region & Country
Northwestern Wisconsin USA
Favorite Poets
Edgar Allan Poe, William Blake, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Carlos Castaneda and many more.
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Comments
Candlewitch
Sat, 2012-02-25 14:17
Dear Lonnie,
Thank you for being intrepid enough to brave reading the whole poem. You are one of my few readers, and I greatly appreciate you! Your efforts are anything but feeble. Have a great day!
always, eddy (& cat)
*
When someone reads your work
And responds, please be courteous
And reply in kind, thanks.
author commentlou
Fri, 2012-02-24 22:29
Cat
Only one thing to say WOW!!
Love Lou
Stand tall, be proud to be who you are, give the world the finger!!!!
Candlewitch
Sat, 2012-02-25 14:19
Dear Lou,
Thank you. You are dear and loyal reader.
always, eddy (& cat)
*
When someone reads your work
And responds, please be courteous
And reply in kind, thanks.
author commentwesley snow
Tue, 2012-02-28 22:19
Okay.
So what was this I heard from you about having trouble with exposition, complication, climax and resolution?
This is great lady. I mean really great. I have one complaint which I will throw out last, but for the moment let's pretend this is your workshop write.
First, one of the things I have the most difficult time with in my epic poem is... brevity. To the poet in my mind that is a filthy, horrid word. I ALWAYS have something more to say. My tales become so complex it would take six months of Sundays to describe it in simple, unpoetic terms. However, b-b-brevity (excuse me, I have to gag) is one of the most useful tools of a storyteller.
Now, obviously this isn't about Jack the Ripper as it seems to be Eddie wearing his coat. So the title is (sorry Barbara) a bit of a cheat I think. I would like to see it called "Confessions" and then rely on the poem to explain where we are and what we're about. I have every confidence that you would not have a single reader who missed the point.
The exposition was quick and succinct. No confusion and no extra description muddying the waters.
By the way, I take it you subscribe to the theory that Jack was Edward, the Prince.
The complication is necessarily obvious, so you didn't poke around in that either.
The climax made me want to vomit. I mean, that's really disgusting. Jack only tore their bowels out. He didn't have sex. Actually, I think it was very appropriate as you took a story we all know (and love?) and threw a wrench in it.
Then you tidied the whole thing up in a half dozen lines. I kid you not- this sort of brrrr-brrrr-brrrrrrevity is entirely beyond me.
This is one seriously successful poem and it is going into my archives.
Now, the complaint.
The second stanza is two incomplete sentences. If you open the second sentence with "Placing the empty vessel on the scarred, wooden bar top..." you must now finish the sentence. He must DO something AFTER he places the cup. It is the first half of two dependent clauses. To stand on its own it must say something like- "I place the vessel on the scarred, wooden bar top."
The first sentence has the same problem. Turn both sentences into one. Each sentence being one half-
Finishing my tot of gin,
as the soft smile
of a refined gentleman
plays at the corners of my lips,
I place the empty vessel
on the scarred,
wooden bar top.
Does that make sense?
Look, they don't call me the Grammar Cop for nothing.
Cat, I love this freakin' poem. Please write me another. How about Rasputin? Look it up and just do his death.
wesley
W. H. Snow
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Candlewitch
Wed, 2012-02-29 12:21
Dear Wesley,
First off, thank you for reading! I found this a tough poem to write. I like your title suggestion and the others. I will try to get them into the "Book Of Styx II" before it goes to print, but it may be already too late. If there is a secomd edition down the road it will make the pages of that. Thank you for your work on this piece, I'm so glad you read it!
always, eddy (& cat)
*
When someone reads your work
And responds, please be courteous
And reply in kind, thanks.
author commentEsker
Wed, 2012-02-29 21:01
sweet murmur of grapes upon her wry smile
Nothing like the dashing days of yore
(with a dash of a wench and gore)
Simply mesmerizing!
(I remember the old autopsy pics)
Candlewitch
Thu, 2012-03-01 10:39
Dear Esker,
It is always a pleasure for me when you visit my page! Thank you so very much for reading and commenting :)
always, eddy (& cat)
*
When someone reads your work
And responds, please be courteous
And reply in kind, thanks.
author commentEsker
Thu, 2012-03-01 14:23
there was another elusive one too
"Springheels Jack" Im most certian you must have heard of him
too in victorian days of then.... I have read books on Ripper Jack
saw the photos and the many many movies based on the premise
of that....disturbing is that he used grapes to lure his victims
a finesse that was not even needed but a cruel ruse
disturbing pyschology was my favourite read as a youth and
adult now... Profiling shows I watch with vigourous fascination
and there are many directors whom craft the most seductive
and messed up dark movies Cronenberg and Egoyam are
two of my favourites here in Canada
Edgar Allen Poe was a favourite read and so was H.P. Lovecraft
Rice Ive read a few and others..
again a great poem!
Thank You!