Cinnamon Woman ~ an excerpt from ‘CARNEVALE’

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Cinnamon Woman ~
 
Cinnamon woman
gliding in on a trail of cloves,
its oil smoothed into the teak and topaz perfection of her face,
and the light fractures starlike as it dances away from her mere wisp of a mask
the barest ribbon and lace molded against her eyes as if held by spells and spiderwebs.
Her crescent moon lips curve as you inhale
dragging the drugging tastes of clove and cinnamon
filling your mouth and mind with it
wrapping it like a lovers veil
like an ancient goddess’s benediction.
while the desire enfolds and presses your neck in a gallows embrace
and digs its painted nails into your ribcage
 and the night deepens around your eyelids bringing welcome waters to wash your memories away
as the air slows around you
time bending and flexing
 ringing like a crystal goblet
and a burning violin pounds in your neck 
surges through your fingertips and 
trails sparks up your spine.
And you can almost hear the sizzle as the stars burn out
one by one
behind the curved and inviolate dome 
of your eyes.
There is no mask that can shield you from this knowing
this meeting
this joining of blood to blood.
And in the silence between heartbeats
there is acquiescence,
there is power 
and there is no shame,
for in that ultimate moment…
the gazelle can deny the lion nothing.
 
 ©jayetomas2015

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1515236358

http://www.amazon.com/1515236358

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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