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Thalia, I look at you with sore eyes

And see the pale beauty that has been washed

From life my own, made fit to be held here

No more than lonely voyeur of your grace.


With raven ribboned hair strands on your face,

In dark allegiance with your ornate eyes

So emerald green that they can scarce disguise

An inner poised exquisite stillness lies.


That breathless, fragile as your porcelain

Visage that holds me here almost afraid

That I might mark, or otherwise invade

This pure unfathomed sanctity unknown.


Those lucky few who scented at the air

Sweet perfumed, this flower adorned hair

To get that close a touch from purity

A red full mouthed eclipsing dream we see.


Some regal touch of swan-neck soft would be

The sure and certain death of all who see

That heart impounding untouched rarity:

Thalia I look at you with eyes that see no more

The beauty that has washed from me and litters on the shore

Thalia of place, or Girl, or dream I know for sure

Is settling in the sunset shadows, longing evermore.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Last few words: 
Thalia, is purely a creation of a Girl on a postcard, a memory and a very special place:
Editing stage: 


I like your writing style....careful and well a new engine humming swell
nothing too hear to give one hell...

I wrote and sketched and painted women I loved.....loathing them was not....I had mother...the ones who were critical of me...equally fear based....for I was
their version of bastard fathers...and to they bastard children unwed....unloved like
unfed....always the hunger ravaging them inside even if they stuffed themselves
with everything that could be reached

my pedestal times.....

when they took the training wheels off my bike I went straight down the hill...a gravel
driveway....towards a street of limestone pavement...crushed limestone was mixed with
blacktop...a cheesgrater kind of texture that when aged was somewhat smoothed down
like alligator teeth...old...maybe.....I didnt get that far....swooped a half swing on the
gravel going full bore and went sidewalks skidding and thumping along as if thrown
by an adult.....I was so excited by the rush of speed....that I got even that far that my
normal reaction to cry like a baby that I still was at that age.....11?? didnt come out...
scrapped..bleeding...the new bike intact....they built things to last in those days!!
I was christened by speed....danger....rush....odds......even now at fifty when I almost
hit poles by veering about them there is that rush....thrill....calculating and never
putting myself at the odds......was something that once tasted I never looked back...

I loved girls pretty as postcards and pursued them...thinking I will never win them..
and I did....they smoked cigars...hated parts of what their dads did and moms....
burped farted just as much as I did....had nothing or had beautiful things....
but to them I was beautiful....broken and beaten down then....cowboy boots
and a leather jacket....a bad attitude and sour mouth....
I was their photo they found they wanted love and sex from....and it was all
good...but I lived for the pedestal....where they could not feel my arms the girls in the cages in the cocktail bars

Ive had glasses and cups thrown at me...a knife held over me...a car reversed
me hanging on the door and she spinning it...a great driver....I went flying
a full black eye....some of my shit removed...
gifts from previous girls destroyed.....

the passion.....and the insatiable sessions and release to the wilds again
but how I lived to be an earthshattering moment in their book
that I saw they had with others.....correction towards others...

what I missed was how important I was....How they did love me
I was immature and young...then grew old and jaded.....believing
it true my minds concept...

they were like billboard beauties
while all the while the girls on the ground
would lean on my shoulder
and say things...
"Bet you want her for the nite huh mister!"
while I stood starry eyed

I like this...its like a creation
that comes to life
and wants what all others want
and is fallible as they..them...the others

my writing was dry
and clean as a new pair of
for years and years
then I began to wear and tear
like the scrapes and bruises
of the first crash
and the many to follow

and of late
im learning to love my broken
up old self and smile
missing teeth wild hair
and dirty work shirt
and all

my post card girls
are relaxing
letting their hair
down and like tonight
with my baby at the sushi
busy place for all
the plump japanese girl
with glasses whom was
brusque poked me with
a finger when asking me
if I wanted more tea

a pink necklace fob
so see she dreams
and even the postcard
girls are real

as real as postcard

people live in life
love is a active scene
full of dirty dishes
and spills
and boredom
and stupidity
and great passion

im so glad that I came
alive in the last little while
I was always holding out
for to be loved by my mother
and im so glad Ive got all
these very real women with
very real needs and
anger and insecurities to
just be near me

i dont judge my mothers ways
because I did
she put in good in me
but im loved and needed too
by real women

in a way your poem about
Thalia has brought all this

i had thalias....
but the ones I least expected
and judged the most and drove
away were the spice and flavor
to my sauce of living
that keeps me sated

enjoying this repoire to your
well spelled off work!

Mr Esker~

Just reading back through the pages - you know what it's like - work and it's infinite distractions get in the way of your passions, all the things you'd rather be doing ;)

Belated thanks.

PS Did you ever read Gerard Manley Hopkins? I never really paid much attention to him, but discovered by pure chance when i overheard his words being read. A real forerunner of the modernists, I really like the way he wrote! Check out:

Chris Hall - Tasmania

Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores.

author comment

highs school the greater minds would bring me the greater books
which I actually read! post high school I was reading three four books
a month out of librarys....
would buy the avante garde magazines
and sit with the real brainiacs whom were older and actually lived in
paris and spain
and had money
suprised when I opened my mouth one day
to answer a question they were delving
but its always been that way
opinions and judgements and then the fluid
articulations arrive from me

yes...I miss books like I miss the old FM
gone the way of analog television
free too the masses

gotta go put the dog out
a shar pei..its winter
my baby cant do it.
dogs mine
way it goes

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