Beauty

 

 Title: Beauty; Medium: Oil/gloss; Price: €680.

 

Beauty

I

The tree outside framed by my kitchen window
Bud-burst, sap-spurt, flower-flirt, leaf-surge
Beneath the time-lapse skies
Onward the rush to awesome autumn auburn shades
Too soon the sickle wind scythes its stentorian breath
To ravage the foliage like so many sheaves
Of unsung, unseen verse – the babblings
Of youth and age and middle age.

II

In old Seville I lean across the flat-roof patio wall
To gaze upon the passers-by three floors below
Placing my elbows either side of two geranium pots
By happenstance I glance at the house across the street
And spy at an open window a dark-eyed
Dark-haired señorita arms crossed with elbows up
About to lift her blouse over her head
Thus to display her glorious naked breasts
Just as I feel the curvature of earth in the bulge
Of my swelling penis she spies me, stops
And, with a look full of reproach,
Pulls down the blind.

III

It’s the smell, he says, that indescribable odour
That they exude from their very pores
An intoxicant of perfume with a subtle hint of piss —
Not the stench of adult urine, you understand —
But something much more refined, altogether cleaner
Fresh … unused … unsullied
That reminds him of the hairless slit
Concealing delicious pink behind the lips
And the little brown rose-bud
Ripe for plucking.

IV

Bone resists, but the flesh is forever yielding
One swish slices through both.
Blood-spurt fountains ever diminishing
As the living corpse crumples
The eyes empty, or pleading, or … whatever.
The sudden stench of shit rankles
For a split second
And you, angel of mercy, angel of destruction
Deliver
The next blow, and the next.
The women are the best, or the worst, depending.
The pregnant ones … oof!

V

Gliding my fingertips ever so gently
Over the filaments of hair on your skin
Elicits shivers and moans from my queen
Inviting me to dive headlong
Into magma or glacial waters
Never knowing which to expect.
I yield, and plunge my spear
Into your cauldron.

© Patrick Stack
16 May 2014

Photo of Richard SharpRichard Sharp was born in 1954 in Belfast. He lives in Quilty and farms in Ballyvaughan, Co. Clare. His medium is either acrylic or Oil/gloss and all his subject matter is local.

 

Photo of Patrick Stack Patrick Stack has been writing poetry since he was 12. He has had poems published in Revival Poetry Journal, Crannóg, and The Clare Champion. He published his first collection, “The Parting“, in April 2013 and is working on a second. He lives and works in County Clare. Website: patrickstack.ie

 

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