inetto

[constantine]

come, let us follow the poet
on his day's journey.
I'm sure he won't mind, as
he thrives on the attention
given by his contemporaries, observe
the maestro as he sits in contemplation,
a lively intellect, engaged
by the seemingly trivial, his faculties
through rigorous mental calisthenics
honed like the tip of the rapier, about
to dissect, examine, re-examine--
the ordinary blossoms with his
kaleidoscopic vision, he thirsts
pours iced water from the carafe,
he ponders the evolution of indoor plumbing
that noble gift of the Romans, of which
he is greatly enamored,
the aquaduct--the Pont Du Gard,
after a milennium still functional.
ahh, the skill of these artisans... but wait
there's more, his restless intellect embraces
even the microscopic, the protozoa
that swim, ceaselessly meandering
within his glass, the varieties--
their inter-relationships,
the amoeba and paramecium,
rotifers, whose spiraling cilia
are the very essence of consumerism,
their sexual habits, proclivities, and desires--
such as they may be,
distract as they titillate, he wonders
why the glass is half full and departs.

onward, the street beckons--
the theatre of life,
he is a bella figura, ever cognizant
of his responsiblities to himself,
it is not enough that he knows, they
must know that he knows,
in the grand tradition of sprezzatura
he enters the arena like a bullfighter
aware of the eyes upon him, aware
of each nuance and affectation,
he plays the role fate has dealt like a Stradivarius!
he senses an air of turbulence rippling across the piazza...
La Contessa!
at last, the perfect object for his attentions -
worthy of his powers of seduction.
he familiarizes himself with the nature of the prey.
he notes her habits, her predilections-
her itinerary is a matter of public record.
he frequents her favorite cafe,
at the bookstore - he is there!
he offers the suggestion of a smile
as their eyes meet, poor child
she is his and she knows it.

How shall I describe his method, his technique?
If it could be bottled, well...
dream on my friends,
it's a matter of breeding that money cannot buy,
indeed, it is more likely to corrupt
in some inverted, rococo-like
nouveau riche display that is antithetical
to his natural sense of savoir faire.

La Contessa reclines in her boudoir
like one of Botticelli's visions, he enters
and spies himself in the mirror
with unaffected elegance and elan
(again la sprezzatura!)
he disrobes, casually
casting off his accoutrements
as if the leaves of autumn,
La Contessa waits like an oyster's pearl
her skin translucent, glistening
with the sweat of anticipatory desire.
he snorts with the passion of a stallion
as her little dog foo-foo
bites his exposed posterior -
the empire has fallen

[stilltrucking]

absolutely

brilliant

[constantine]

this was fun to write. thanks stilltruckin.

[constantine]

that noble gift of the romans of which i am greatly enamored.

[stilltrucking]

The Romans, yes they were the inventors of the pay toilete. I forgot the archeology of that, but in the ruins some ancient Roman city there were a bunch of potties lined up and there were an extrodinary number of coins found scattered around.

Foo Foo,
I can identify with that. she left me with this emasculating dog who won't stop bitting me.

http://www.geocities.com/smilingjacky/nikko.jpg

[constantine]

yeah looks like a foo foo. it's the little ones that'll do it to you. had a cat that put the bite on my naked ass once. she felt obligated.

[constantine]

well i'm not sure how to take the paucity of replies concerning inetto. doesn't matter all that much. theodore sturgeon once said 90% of everything is crap. if so, why worry about it. the lack of replies might be construed as an endorsement as such. when everybody loves a poem i start to worry.

[stilltrucking]

Don't take it dino
you could come back in three months and you might have a 1000 views for this one.

I am pretty vain, I could careless who replies, i just want to be read.

You got thirty some views so far.

Great work
I loved it

but don't let me encourage you

[constantine]

i'm cool.

[stilltrucking]

I'm drool

[mnaz]

Dino.. part of the problem here last weekend was all of the energy and time lost to arguing... kinda sucked me in a bit too. Looks like an epic, 'tho. I'm gong to read it after work.

[constantine]

yeah, it was a rough weekend. i hope you enjoy the poem, man of peace.

[stilltrucking]

It was an excellent week end for me
And this morning it is raining
seems like these were the good old days

I write at people
for my own reasons

I don't care if anybody even reads what I scribble
I am not a pleasure to read I know that
not with my sloppy style

I don't know why I write
I think it is an exorcism for me
like shooting milk jugs with a shot gun maybe

[constantine]

that sounds good to me. i'd rather do that than write - at least for a while. poetry does not satisfy my destructive tendencies.

[stilltrucking]

I am not a poet Constantine

I can't speak to it.

My anger flows through my fingertips onto these keys

I don't trust myself to own a gun

Spent a long dark night of the soul trying to figure out how to lay my hands on one. That was thirty years ago. And that is why I decided to become a Quaker.

My agression is not all that passive.

My rages have come too quick.

But I am old now

And hopefuly harmless.


***************************
Good poem

Glad to see you finally got some replies.

I searched for an hour trying to find a portrait of a woman and her suitor that I thought would fit it very nice.

It was titled "Portrait of Faustina" I think and it was from an article about decadence.

My hard drive is out of control
I got four gig a bytes of documents in it and that is only on this hard drive.
I got four or five more of them laying on a shelf.

Hopeless when you are as compulsive a scribbler as I am.

let you go now

thanks for taking the time to reply to these rambles.