God, I'm bored. I have to go to work in a few hours, so I should really be in bed... but I'm not. B, you've spoiled me, now I'm bored out of my mind during the time you would normally be talking to me. Waiting for nightfall in the real-life dark, so I can hunt again.
I... wrote a sonnet. Yeah, I know. But for some reason I was just inspired a few weeks ago. I'm crap on poetry, even worse on stuff that rhymes, but it seems I thrive under the restrictions imposed by the sonnet form. Some of you may have seen this already, but for those of you who both haven't and are interested, should there be any matching that description, I offer it here.

The Libertine Lover's Oath

To you, my love, in love, I bind my flesh

And if you’d feel the heart that makes this oath

Then lay you now your hand upon my breast

Where beats the vow which break I would be loath

And as in flesh the spirit’s secrets out

Let none forget my body too is thine

Though if you find that aught you are without

Then freely seek another who align

More peaceably with what my love desires

For touch of foreign flesh takes not what’s mine

Nor dims the love for which my flesh heart fires

Nor makes my flesh, my heart any less thine

In bed be you and me and two or three

Long as in flesh, in love, we in bed be.

It's not too bad, I don't think, especially for someone who has no delusions about her utter inability with regard to poetry. Will this happen again? Probably not.
As to my subject matter... what can I say? I'm a visceral person. Flesh and life and death and flesh and love and therefore love and life and death are pretty indivisible to me. What point is there in making pretensions toward separating the mind from the body? It's all made from the same stuff... people only make themselves unhappy by setting their brains at odds with everything else.
Setting death at odds with life is another unfortunate, common habit. There's as much sensuality in dissolution as there is in solid, tangible life. I'm not talking about necrophilia here, you filthy dogs, I'm talking about entropy as erotica. Two people--or, hell, more if that's your pleasure--dissolving, losing coherency in a form they've come to expect, gaining other forms as their constituent parts are literally shared... just because in general people aren't capable of such somatic decadence in the greatest moments of our mortality doesn't mean it's not there.

See, this is what happens when you mix mediocre poetry, pending exhaustion, utter boredom and my own particular, peculiar aesthetic obsession. I am officially a weird, weird woman. Remind me in the future to go to sleep before this happens.

Remember when we were just flesh and bone? You, sir, may have forgotten how good your world can be. Kiss your lover's lips and know that fate is what you make of it.

Labels: Introspection, Polyamory