“The arrows of song through Hell cease to hurtle.
Away to the passionate gardens of Greece,
Where the thrush is awake, and the voice of the turtle
Is soft in the amorous places of peace.”
Oh, sweet ephebe. Are you cold? Are your toes warm?
I walk upright citizen but in my dreams, I run on all fours, swift and steadily clumsy. Stacked buxom and epicurean in ample bosom.
Slight shelf formed in the concave curve of lower spine conjuncting with the lift of rounded, stood and lit cheeks.
Callipygian ass. Firm round mammæ. Slight ripple of a stubborn tummy covering my unused womb where I metaphysically minister to the devotees calling themselves Moira’s Nudes.
Rosebud. Ease into the garden.
Come and let us attend the Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz.
I tried to read the instructive booklet, fuzzy beast, but it was a bit confusing.
Something about the feminine and masculine now unified sharing a new womb, the regenerative apparatus giving both the capacity for pregnancy, both allegorically and through magical realism.
The poet didn’t eff his lady.
the lady tried to give him her body. Her Desire. you laughed. and prioritized your spiritual needs.
Her Love craves to be obtainable, tactile, nourishing, fun, wild and feral yet warm and protective.
Her love exceeds her desire/s.
Her love sacrifices her desires to enkindle the flame.
She who was Wittgenstein’s Mistress
read you clear now.
Do you read me: your desire came before your love.
How I howl.
WrittenCasey 
Speculation on what makes spiritual love:
1. that sense of “I think of you
right
exactly now
most of the time (as regards a person/s)
2. a willingness to release a piece of freedom or power in exchange for the safety of making a fool of oneself for the sake of the authenticity of all parties.
3. addressing the fear of loss and need. mending the broken while admitting the flawed. on negotiated and agreed terms.
4. using physicality as a means to cathartic release. as opposed to substances but not in conflict with them necessarily.
*negotiations could be immaterial to certain \players/
**i believe that what you do not know can hurt you.
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So what makes love spiritual, Casey? Is it that it exceeds our desires?
A while back, I read of a preacher who cautioned his congregation not to look at the moon because the moon is so beautiful it would distract them from thoughts of God. Mad me wonder if thinking could ever be more spiritual than looking? Apparently, he thought so.
You should try writing something esoteric. Your plain-language poetry is all very well and good, but no one will ever delight in returning to it again and again to get more and more out of it, now will they? Add some layers! That’s my advice, Casey. Add some layers!
I’m bookmarking this to my folder for favorite poems I find on the net.
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