Unpaid ticket

Veiled from moon I drown
cascade in hair and lips.
You nibble earlobes
breathe, and fingertips
are scribbling poetry;
symbols, syllables
feathered on my back.

We firework ourselves.
We dance us numb,
and only afterwards
we realize
a ticket to return
is yet unpaid.

lovers
A second entry for my Quadrille post at dVerse. 44 words using dance with an object. I also link this to the Tuesday Platform at toads.

27 responses to “Unpaid ticket

  1. Ah, very sensuous but, I wonder about the unpaid ticket to return…your poetry always has a bit of a twist and you delivered it in the end.

    I may have to try another one of these…

  2. Wow! I am consumed by this one! I love the idea of fingertips scribbling, feathering poetry on one’s back in those moments of love and passion. Fireworks indeed!

  3. Oh, my. **fans self**
    This is intense, beautiful, sexy. Firework at verb: YES. And that unpaid ticket. Sigh. Reality has a way of doing that, doesn’t it?

  4. This looks like a wonderful form to explore. I love the way you have described the scene in short yet powerful lines.

  5. My word, your poems keep getting better and better. What I love most about your writing is your abstract style … that there doesn’t have to be just one story; you give the reader permission to see/intuit anything he/she wants to. Also, with many of your poems, I’ll “hear” different stories every time I read them.

    This one gets me really excited, but I read it as if your lover is poetry herself. Not just poetry, but YOUR poetry. The act, process, lust of writing down your thoughts in just the way that YOU do it. I think that’s what makes this even sexier than if it were about a woman. This is about making love to the deepest part of yourself — the poet, the poetry, the creativity, the imagination.

    The story I see, directed by the mysterious ticket, is that the speaker got on a plane to go somewhere sensual so that he could throw himself into his writing, without any distractions — to really get the right vibe going. Paris or Venice or some other notoriously delicious city.

    That fantastic ending makes me think that even though his poems are damn delicious and “on fire in the sky,” they’re not going to pay the bills. Inevitably he has to go back home, be it for a “real job” or family or whatever. But he can’t yet pay for the ticket. He’s going to have to do something responsible for a while so that he can 1) get back home for a bit, but then 2) pay for another writing indulgence.

    Maybe you’re intentions were different, but I LOVE the way I’m reading this. These are my favorites, but it’s all amazing:

    the opening image, the woman’s/muse’s/poetic voice’s “long hair” hanging in your face while she … takes you // places. 🙂

    “fingertips
    are scribbling poetry”

    “symbols, syllables
    feathered on my back”

    I agree with everyone else. This is yum! Keep ’em comin’, bro.

    • I’m sure everyone who writes feels this way … that longing to steal away from “real life” to delve into the imagination. You feel like you’re doing something “naughty” by taking that time for yourself.

  6. oh, i love this!
    so romantic. so many little pieces of us poets here.
    i think those who write and create are probably most passionate. we tend to feel and notice things on a deeper and more meaningful level.
    great artwork to accompany the writing.

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