Lovers dress for the occasion.
Lovers dress for the occasion.
“But how do I know he’s right?” she asked.
It was more of a rhetorical question but her grandmother being who she is never gave half baked answers.
She said, “If you want to know, don’t worry about his eyes. They can be trained to lie.
Don’t worry about his face; he can have two of them.
Don’t even worry about his words; he can be a word smith of sorts.
Above all else, look at his hands”.
“Yes my dear”.
“Huh… I don’t….”
“Jolie, you must look at his hands. Are they rugged and do they have marks of work? Has he toiled with them and earned his worth?
If they aren’t scarred and marked with proof of resilience then you have no business demanding he be anything more than your toy.
Look into his nails, are they shiny with lustre reflecting his own image? If so forget about him, he’s infatuated with himself and has no time or attention for you. Look instead for scratches, cracks and a little coarseness. Look for hardness; you never know when you’d want him to claw a man to death for you….. ”
“Really, you can’t marry a man who has better nails than you do. Look closely at his fingertips. Are they rough and have terrains like the Alps? Or are they smooth like a babies bum? If the later then he will not know how to touch you, he will be so used to frailty and so inexperienced he will do one of two things with them, either not be able to soothe you at all or he will hurt you with them. The man with toiled hands will know what it’s like to have them tarnished with pain and suffering. He will touch you gently and know how much force to use, he will heal you by merely brushing it on your face.
Jolie, one more thing, smell his hands. If they are useless hands, they will smell of fruity synthetics, the smell of a man who has to fake his masculinity. Rather they should smell of rust, woods and a little patchouli. Then you know he is true to his art.”
“Art, perfume, this is crazy?”
“Yes Jolie, it is an art to be a man. The fragrances will reassure you when you doubt him. The rust is his work ethic, the woods are his abasement of self and attachment to the earth and the patchouli is his choice, he picks those from the fields for you so the scent lingers in his palms. Patchouli is healing, soothing, intoxicating and calming. It will also arouse desire in you for him. Haven’t you got google?”
And they giggled into each other’s arms.
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“Give me one reason why I should stay with you.”
He replied “I’ll give you fifty nine!
When you talk to me and I seem like I’m not paying attention to what you say, you’re probably right, I was counting fifty nine eye lashes on your left eye.
When you yell at me and I don’t yell back, I was giving you fifty nine excuses for your anger with me and justified them all.
When you don’t like how much I work, I was thinking of our fifty ninth anniversary and how I would give you another fifty nine in a heartbeat.
Speaking of heartbeats, I remember counting yours as you sleep, and how you’re in perfect sync with the clock, sixty beats per minute. So I measured my own heart and noticed it was exactly like yours except for the last one as it skips one beat for you.
Can you give me one excuse why you should leave?”
I’ve written about why I write in the past. This is how I write.
He loved by devoting himself to his art.
His art was only realised at night.
In the throes of anti-matter dust,
In the throes of loves arrow thrust,
In his minds madness trust,
In his blood thirsty nocturnal lust.
It all came to him half awake, half asleep,
Like Dali his mentor painting surrealist sweeps,
He’s the lyrical dreamer with spoon in hand,
Waiting for a wink of Loves command.
Off to work in the dusk he strains,
Eye bags, Eye Sores, Iris pounding, retina pain,
Awaiting his lot, for words to claim,
In the auction of poets where the asleep are slain.
I have to pick at your wounds.
No, I don’t enjoy the pain you’re going through,
I’m addicted to healing you.