Holden's Mistress and the 50 pearls.

This is my paradise-

A thousand or so books lying
quietly dormant on the illiterate
bookshelf, ebony black and miserable
that it holds dead trees instead of treasures.

They are not dusty, however,
they are whipped down by
furious, manic hands
to reassure that there is only so many
people in the world called Smith
and so little called Happy.

My room door is securely tightened
with a million locks and chains, each
shining with a reflection or insanity.
Only then can I protect myself from
the baiting crowd who wait
patiently to unwrap me from my
funeral veil to mock and satirize.

The heavy, velvet curtains drawn
like the opening of sky each morning.
They are heavy with galaxies. I close out the
societies, the bricks and bric-a-brac and
permit a single beam of moonlight to
grate across my room floor.

There is no carpet, no linoleum.
Only the stark floorboards
unmellowed still.

There are two beds, single
yet together, each quilted
a luxury, silk veil. The vexing
lack of comfort in the slippery
substance makes me shudder
from each brush, from each touch.

In the armchair, by the fire, sits Holden.
He swirls a scotch and soda as he
laughs and bastardises his intelligence
with trivial complaints of coldness.
He smirks as he knows
that will not matter soon.

I bring the table I prepared.
On it, sleeps one hundred pearls
of bliss. I hold my glass of
teal veal blood and he holds his.

As we swallow, swallow
and gulp.
Each pearl I can feel
writhe down my gullet, roar
against my pulse and the
moonlight is finally dimming
as we step like
lady and gentlemen
into our bed.

How ironic since we are
neither gentry nor refined
as we feel the scratchy softness
of the silk as the bleak bliss
pierces our skin and
drains the nightmares away
until

nothingness.

Oh, I was never so happy alive
now I have tasted pure
blackness.

Amazing interpretation of bliss - I'm probably completely wrong, but the feeling that I got was that bliss is experienced differently by individual people, and what is paradise to one person isn't to another. I say this because the sexual imagery you portray is quite unlike anything I've read before, but no less emotive, and if anything, more delicate.

You know that I can't choose a favourite line because every word compliments the next. I love it. That's all I can say, I absolutely love it.

I really loved this. It was story-like and full of imagery. My favorite part:

As we swallow, swallow
and gulp.
Each pearl I can feel
writhe down my gullet, roar
against my pulse and the
moonlight is finally dimming
as we step like
lady and gentlemen
into our bed.

How ironic since we are
neither gentry nor refined
as we feel the scratchy softness
of the silk as the bleak bliss
pierces our skin and
drains the nightmares away
until

nothingness.

I love that you use the Catcher in Rye character, Holden, in this poem. You truly catch his essence in such a brilliant way.

I get that you find bliss from reading, but maybe I'm interpreting it all wrong. If so, oh well.

I love your poem dearly.

I love this stanza the best:
In the armchair, by the fire, sits Holden.
He swirls a scotch and soda as he
laughs and bastardises his intelligence
with trivial complaints of coldness.
He smirks as he knows
that will not matter soon.


Like I said, you just capture Holden's personality. More so with this stanza when you introduce him.

I love it.

I love it.
Basically, I adore coming across a thematic that might not be completely new to me, but so originally thought out that it feels like I have never had the opportunity to read it before. And I've read quite a lot, to be honest.
It's interesting, yet not too complicated.
Perfectly descriptional, but not overdone.
and as long as it is, I didn't get bored of reading it, not one bit.

It's a story, so wonderfully told. Just, lovely.