Beauty will save the world
Samples of my imagination...
Immortalized by sin
The eyes wander
Not too far
Just where I am
Bound to contemplate
His little dance of love
Who is he?
He is death
Where is he?
He is in me
When is he?
He is eternal
What is he?
He is snow
How is he?
He is tender
Why is he?
Because I have made him.
Sometimes words are empty
Sometimes you soul is showing
Sometimes your love can kill
If I could reach you
I'd tell you my story
If I could kill you
I'd be re-born
If you could see me
You'd be forever
Like you in the crowd
That quickly rejects
Your tears and your plea
Like the frozen ocean
From which you came
To storm my heart away
Like the sky you forgot
To paint with colours
As marching clouds besiege
Your stone cold heart
I can't stop!
I won't end
This crazy romance
That's all in my head
And blows like sand
Won't break and won't bend
Won't leave nor mend
The broken pieces of hope
Cutting deep to send
Streams of blood into my hands…
Play with me
Lie with me
Sing with me
Jump with me
Run with me
Kill with me
Rhyme with me
Be! Be! Be!
[October 2008 - ©Rosaria
A poem inspired by my latest obsession:
I LOVE YOU
Your heart-shaped lips
that softly talk,
whispering in the loud wind
of winters that’ll never
and falls you can foresee
Your pretty eyes
hiding the soul
I want to crash;
Your clueless expression
of childish joy
when you look astonished,
embarrassed and coy
a shot to the heart,
a mesmerizing jump
in to the blood pumping system,
that circles and stops
then cuts to the bone
of your pure mind,
so simple yet perfect
truly one of a kind
And you’re one in a million,
and she’s nothing but
We’d die for a chance
to feel slaves to your hand
But you never look
never turn your head to see
You run through the mist
and fail to conceive
That we are in awe
of your perfect soul
I love you, it’s true:
your beauty I can’t resist
I love you, it’s real:
but you don’t exist.
[©Rosaria Trenta, 17 September 2007]
BEIJO (THE KISS)
The taste of your mouth is sweet
and clean. I have often wondered how it would feel to have that taste melting inside me, like liquid metal under the boiling
sun. And now I know, because I have tasted the softness of your tongue, touching my teeth and exploring the inside of my body;
I have moved mountains with the help of your arms and legs, then sealed the truth with words, which remained unspoken and
unaided by His Serene Highness, the General of Enquiries. Not for the first time, winning this personal bet with destiny was
the only possible outcome for me.
The blood is running a marathon of intriguing sounds and visions; attempting to overcome
my desire, it has now generated a simple circle of movements. It opens the path to infinite pleasure, pumps up the cells and
particles, before unleashing its fury, like a caged lion, freeing from captivity for the first time. The pulse is fast and
demands no pause. The pulse is your neck vibrating within your muscles; it stamps and seals the legitimacy of this gesture,
participating to the feast arranged by your willingness to be the only one, the best and last in the order of things, the
guilty and the beguiled in the vision of madness.
All of this begins with that sensuous slip of the tongue, making its move throughout
the web of our wet mouths.
If you were an animal, you would be punished for such intrepid candour, never to be freed
again from the immortal desire that haunts you since the day you were born. And haunted you shall be forever more, unable
to see the world, only sensing it outside your prison, wishing it was real and hoping that, in a moment of distraction, your
jailors would uncover the secret and finally meet your curiosity, showing you what you have been missing. But this, of course,
shall never be.
In a rare moment of clarity, that impure gesture will break the barriers of this mortal
coil and evolve into a better form, flawless possibly. Because you are not perfect and I could not punish you for it, the
image of what it could have been will be your only comfort.
Every drop of sweat emerges from this chaos with a mission: to be tasted and concealed
again. You are a master of deceit, like a magician hypnotizing an audience of fools. The one spectator you are performing
for is a slave to your powerful will, this also being a trait of the great illusionist. You encircle the previous specimen,
all of them in fact, and those who will come as well. You confine them all to oblivion, so masterful is your performing ability.
While your tongue expresses the intimate desire of your soul, that language so warm comes
out of your vocal chords. In Brazil, your homeland, different ways of catching the elements of the strange sounding tongue, catapult your reason beyond
the ferocious dominions of sanity. It is not only my particles mixing up with yours, in fact the different, unfamiliar tongues
also resurface, but they are now changed and more advanced, so that I can speak your language as well as you can speak mine.
This is all in the mind of those who can envisage the entity of the damage, who can protect
themselves from such a tornado of feelings, emotionally charged, terribly wrong and yet so very right. You take this lesson
with you, proud to have found the missing part of my brain, but never too worried that I could turn back the hands of time
and prepare my shelter. No, I must not shelter my feelings from your violence, as I need it for survival just the way it is.
Without it, there could be no tomorrow; without it, there is no existence at all.
I feel your vibrations and expect them to last in order to make me live; I expect them
to give me a definition of myself, to find a way out of the morbid thoughts I have. The salvation I crave you are, the immortal
salvation making me perfect and imperfect at the same time. Like the constant contradiction we always find in ourselves, the
same one that made you believe you could find peace in the number thirteen. I am counting, verifying the acceleration of time,
which stood for a short infinity lost on your lips, frozen on your mouth.
Time and time again, the fluids boil in the heat of this encounter. Too many times we
have found solace in the certainty of this existence. But this world in motion does not stop for us; the gloomy look of the
enemies trying to prevent our fatal encounter, now surround us; we are in the stranglehold of doubts and maybe for a second,
will be apart. It will not last more than a second, and yet the pain will be so unbearable, like the scar under your stomach
trying to become a bleeding sore again. Those lines on your face will glow and I will be saying the words you taught me to
say. It will be only our moment in time, carved on the edge of the world.
The intimacy of our bodies interlaced only by the lips and flowing into each other via
the liquid core of our tongues, is everlasting. You and I will take it away with us; for years to come we will keep it as
a vital part of ourselves, a true reason to stay alive whenever we will be struggling to find any. In the magic of that togetherness
we have found our strength and we have measured its power. To wish for a better outcome it would be offensive.
The taste you gave me I have made mine. And I return it. You take it and give it back
again, insatiable as you must be. If the magic of the unknown has now left us, something even better has come to us, the notion
of being a part of each other’s self, detached a long time ago and returned to us, in a strange, unexpected way. The
mean which we have used to find our way back, would not be suspended in time. It would be at hand, whenever we might need
it, to make those fluids alive again. The softness of a cherry, juicy fruit to taste, element of the fast growing earth; the
tip of the iceberg, the inviting slice of the sweet cake of passion. And then your beauty, unobtainable even for me, your
blood running in streams of fire, the curves of your body and the sweaty pores of mine. Scanning the images and the sounds,
little noises and heavy sighs, but most of all, your taste in my mouth, so sweet and clean. How can I define all that and
make it comprehensible?
You would call it: o beijo. Perhaps I shall call it: the kiss.