Post the Fortieth: In Which We Find Poetic Interlude IV

Good afternoon, Gentle Reader. I’m not settled enough to do a proper post of either type; my cogs are whirring fast enough that they’ll break a tooth sooner rather than later. Therefore, I’m breaking my promise of photos and a better description of Tacomapocalypse III.

Alors. Some housekeeping: It has been suggested that I might have some readers that haven’t met me in person, and evidently, according to several sources, it is absolutely essential that these epistles be read in the curious cadence of my cocktail-party voice. Frankly, that’s the same as my real voice, but not everyone seems to get that. At any rate, so that you, Reader, might have the same experience as my friends that I know outside of the little box, it has been suggested that I do occasional video posts. I am thrilled with this idea, and as soon as we get some things set up, you , too, will be unable to get my voice out of your head!

The point of this post, however, was neither Tacomapocalyse nor the housekeeping thing above (UPDATE: nor, in fact, the video wedged in months later). No, I wanted to tell you about a very special evening, and its result. It was, perhaps, a few weeks after the drunken mirror argument that resulted in my loving myself for the very first time. It felt marvelous to embrace the mental illness, whimsy, and so on, that being Tyler J. Yoder entailed. On the evening in question, partway through a fruity bottle of Moscato, I went to get a snack. As it happened, it was an apple, and on seeing its pink-green skin, the lightning struck. Wine and fruit forgotten, spilled, I tore my desk apart to find a pen before the life electric left me. I have done my best to vindicate Eve – the result is below.

Eve

Her crisp, translucent arm hesitates,

Reaching for pink-and-pale-green flesh;

It is forbidden.

A slither; his sweet words –

That intoxicating scent. It was too tempting to stop,

Or to observe that flickering tongue in her ear.

Lascivious, luscious, pushed past her boundaries:

A rush of juice and flavour and knowledge,

Dripping down her chin.

The serpent slunk away,

No more to be seen.

 

Defiled.

Damned.

She bit again.

 

Resistance: The firm walls at center,

Protecting, like as-yet-unknown motherhood, the womb.

Sudden, the mad rush to finish,

Before a drop is lost.

 

Her skin, now speckled, mottled like flaking paint,

She faces her punishment,

For trusting,

For tempting as she was tempted,

Uncertain of what she had become,

Or what she had gained.

©2013 by Tyler J. Yoder. All rights reserved

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About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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