Roman a Clef Deux

A present I gave to my boyfriend for Christmas

There once was a tale, writ not too long ago,

Of a girl, young Clemency, that merciful rose,

Whose cottage, the home of slipper-linens she donned,

Lay behind Ariel, a silvery pond.

Through fields she would frolic, shirking her duties,

In posies and fuchsias, betwixt the world’s beauties!

Amidst lofty wheat grains and flowering stalks,

With Chanson and Esquisse, two playmates, she’d walk.

A zephyr’s gentle whooshing,

A mother’s ardent pushing.

How picaresque bucolic life certainly seemed!

How idyllic her delightfully languorous dream!

How cushy and gentle, how tiresomely banal

Perfunctory life, but fool was she deemed.

For Chanson, that lovely melodious tune,

And Esquisse, wherewithal her dark dreams could bloom,

Were but small joys in eternal universe,

So she bitterly brooded, alone in self-curse.

‘Til under effect of affected butterfly,

She whistled through town, wishing cake balls to buy.

(Don’t let out a tear, in repulsive fear,

She could not help but prefer moistness to pie!)

When Chanson and Esquisse got caught in a stir,

And poor, clumsy Clemency fell to a daze!

And when she glanced up, with those doe eyes of hers,

Met, twinkling, but faintly, acute verdant gaze.

But who was this boy whose Mots had divide

My snug universe by twisting the tide?

But why sweeps the ground, off my feet he helps

My fried, homoerotic, Spanish yelps?

She walks in clothing, like the rest

To see which asset flaunts her best.

Impeccable spelling and correct use of grammar,

Physique lithe and supple, from David it drew.

His rosy lips, lilting with toothsome enamour,

Lent sunshine beams envy with the warm, sprightly view.

And honey-kissed locks, which tempt fingers for wand’ring,

Framed a summer-drenched forest trapped in his eyes!

Besotting allurement, then quizzical pond’ring,

A decision (needs revision) that his mind must be wise.

But who would have guessed

The impending mess?

Dousing herself in malodorous deflow’ring,

Ignoring the comments, reflections, and reason,

Forewent something dreadful: an urgent show’ring

For a day, or two, (or four, or nine) depending on the season.

A clump of matted hair,

the stench of foul air.

But he did not quell his enduring affection,

Showing for her incomparable predilection!

Reciprocated, no doubt, in form of obsession,

For her strength was profession, not subtle discretion.

Washing himself with a masculine scent,

That bred of the other, the other beloved.

Down gray gated paths, to darling he went!

Filled sonnets with hobbits and Dedalus love.

Sweet colours float in air,

a rainbow far too fair.

But she did not quell that ardent emotion,

Showing for him sentimental devotion!

Reciprocated, no doubt, in form of aggression,

For the other’s expression implied a digression.

Reflections, reflections, these terrified faces

In windows and mirrors and innocent thought

Remind them of dreamy, sweet, far away places

Where pleasantness rises from visages caught.

But though they are fetching within any crowd,

Contrasting features betray all that’s allowed.

The social recluse with the corpulent b***h;

I won’t explain, dear reader, which one is which.

But soft, my love, for I shall not complain.

Thine flaws are not thine flaws but surely prove

Those shivery looks of certain disdain

Bred pouting, doubting, and left me aloof.

On transitory nights, wouldst thou have guessed

Those words, words, words, which fog a precious air,

Alight a dance within my twisted chest?

But, my dear, fair is foul and foul is fair.

A summer’s day is not a blithe delight,

More apt compare is flustr’ing winter’s rime.

For with each rosy name I call to write,

Blushed lust within transcends a passing time.

I postulate it’s all a ruse to sight

That pretty lady who gave me the light.

A black fuzzied barrier parts moistening palms

As they held, fingers meld, gently warmed by the blood

That coursed with a force pulsing arrthymatically

During murmurous nights, whisp’ring “Honey” and “Bud.”

But a name can’t be pet

if no speciality’s set!

So, dear, lend him a name,

but don’t turn too upset.

A pudgy Adonis,

Riparian mistress.

Though this tale, sadly, has come to a close,

Forget not this story of mulierose!

Through years you will live writing prose fashioned art,

But the world you will give thoughtful minds, bleeding hearts.

For through your mots does darkly dormant desire

Be spurred, with your words!, increased wider and higher

Than e’er could be thought; hopeless dreams will be naught,

And strange tender love, you’ve left me inspired.

I hope this rhyme wasn’t too simple for you

A few rows of blankness, bird’s words peeling blue.