Letter To Promethea I can't show you yet the mark your teeth made on my neck. I can't show you the electric, tangled veins. I want you speaking words into my sighs. Everything heat and hovering. Swinging your long big beautiful body side to side over mine all angular slanted among the lakeside pines. I am going to find my way into the light of Promethea's heart. The site is hidden in fire. Fire masks and plagues the darkness, spitting raw dreams, sparks in the night. I cannot let the bright worry of your simple joy at the sun plague my darkness. I gather tongues of fire to return to the cave and paint the rough, blue walls. You harbor my pentagonal logic. I am diseased with Hope. Promethea gallops with wind in hair. The sound of a new birth, the blessing of a new-foundland, this, too, I seek. Promethea, let me have your dust. Fantastically glowing purple particles catch in my eye. The moon's bone aches in my belly. I can never show you this letter, Promethea, even when I show it to you. It will have still remained here, hidden, inside my smile. I show nothing. Everything is satisfied by the purple silent syllable in my slow, secret desire. I carry the wound of your drastic beauty like a broken fable. Messianic and dreamy willows converge in conversation by the wounded lake. I can see you give birth to a poem which will grow strong and someday return to find its homeland. I suppose every word I say to you still lingers by the field. Touch your hair and skin. Carry the moss forward to morning with your fingers. Bruised and sullen grass silent beneath twilight. Rhythm sharp in your hands. Stunned thighs, long and grit by dirt and sap. Bucking grunts and sharply clenched teeth. Furious squares of expressionlessness on your face. Promethea, take your homes of fire back to the skies. I am cast from the blue cave when you speak to me, I am removed from silence. Morning comes, sunlight breaks. A glorious song arcs and cycles the sky. Bright yellow disk of you come galloping. Break horse to plane, spirit to land. Melody when you laugh and shake your long neck. Trickster goddess horse girl. Promethea, I love you. I watch the purple aspirate glow and fade, vanish and reappear, the hidden core inside your name reveals. Promethea it is hard to breathe, sometimes when I think of you. All gorgeous and happy dipped into the lake. A dream is something that to understand will have cost nothing. I have nothing now, but you can have some. I will be waiting patiently for the moon to rise. I'm still waiting for you to decide. I revel in you, Promethea. Desire takes the musky smell of my loneliness and bliss, convenes each ripple, each water swirl of your large and obscurely generous eyes. I notice you are meticulous with this glory. Music crowds your brain. I dance and shake in my cave. The great orange and rust colored eye of fire sweeps its glance over our cities. Somewhere behind its tunneling, compulsive gaze I see my own. Huge, oval mirrors bring me news of your stunning beauty. Arpeggios and slanting ciphers fill spectral wavelengths with the music of your arrival. Satisfied, I regret nothing. Promethea, my teeth are chewing the silver, spooling summer. Steady feet beneath the roof of the sky stepping lightly onto the dew. Promethea came from a song. You left your print in me. Blunt, metallic noon shines flat. Later tonight the darkness will cocoon. Promethea, somewhere between all this smoke and shadow is your image laid in oil upon the broad earth. I Remain Yours, _____ Stanley Gemmell May 26, 2004Model:Lauren Emery
