Slightly Wrong, Always Write.
An artistic place for the delightfully deranged.
Aurora Matahari Raiment
G. Bennett Ulrich
The topic was "Coy," I wrote it like a girl.
And I wrote it like a boy.
Sometimes coyness can shelter me from the rain,
from reality, from your embrace.
You need no asylum from me. Let me be your sanctuary.
Am I coy?
If I'm a boy.
Like a carp?
Yeah, you're full of carp.
Am I that way now? Do you want to touch me?
Not your skin, though that may come in time, nor your mind
(a touched mind is better left unseen), but your Heart, fair Maiden,
your heart that did light my path to this troubling fork. And while I
know you may touch mine--you have--and that I may but see yours,
I'll never touch that which you keep caged from those who would
justly feed it. And so I leave the seed outside the bars and wish
you health, so heed it.
I am coy. Sometimes it's refreshing.
Allude, allure, persuade, demure...deny, negate, encapsulate!
Is it crazy? Making you itch?
I was born middle aged and raised by parents to whom
I taught wisdom. "Crazy" holds no sway for me. And
when I itch, I scratch, I don't ask clawed lions to rake
my flesh. Your coyness, madam, is no crime only
to he that has no laws concerning such trespasses,
but to me it is Time-Devouring and Energy
Sapping. Let us not play at Love, if you have
it, show it, if not, pray, let me know it, so that
I may safely and not unsadly turn my path
Do you need me to barrel down, like the
freezer freight need for obsession? Would
you want me to slice open a vein, here and now,
and bleed the floor blue? I cannot answer your
lines, because it's not a coy thing to do.
Your answer given and now to mine: there's something
in me that must love a game. I stay and play and think
the same--much the same as you: a puzzle to be solved, a
trophy to be won, but not until a great and glorious race is
run. And while I tire of the quest, I also deny all rest, and
all respite of this coy game on this coy night. Perhaps a lack of
games is my true fright--so pray, dear saint, remain as stoic as
your alabaster Mother on the dashboard of your car. I may
retreat, but not too far from your front door, so please,
my love, be coy no more.
I digress, not to impress, but I feel perhaps that
time presses his chill fingers into the tender
white flesh of my throat, but I will not choke,
even though my breath is boiling.
So are you coy or are you toiling?
Let's get back on track, folding our knees
and kneeling in the grass like children
with a dirty book, peeling back the
inky pages of our vulnerable naked
Am I deceived? Is Love received? All
my waiting, all my wanting, is this
Cupid's painting you are flaunting?
Being so fragile is a safety.
Are you safe here?
As safe as at my mother's
teat, but--alas! This milk's
unsweet. Have you given
all you gave to me as to that
selfish knave who took and tore
and did enslave, forcing you that
shred to save and spend instead your
coins of dread?
For me this is not safe. Your knife, strictly
sharpened on the oilstone of my soul, stings.
If you should take a pound of flesh, pray do
it sweetly. However, safe is not alive...being so
safe is like fading into a sallow pale, a fleshy mass
of wasted breath. Although, I admit, your courage is
well matched with wit.
Yes, but courage without triumph is like fire-fighting in the
rain, it may seem worthy, but all the effort is in vain.
And vanity is vulgarity, and I find Humanity to, often times,
be vulgar. Sometimes I am vulgar. Does that make you
want to stop listening? Does that make you want to stop?
Stop my heart? Stop my voice? Is that the choice?
Should I demure, aloof, subdued, or should I coo
like Edith Pilaf*, finding the right chords
to seduce you? I regret my voice is not so
sweet and, not long off, the beat of my heart
did retreat, so chilled by those cold eyes...
so now I must be coy.
Oh, dear saint, you do wrong your
heart too much by closing doors
to ward off tender touch.
What is your deal?
Why are you so afraid
So, at what point are you
willing to shuffle off this mortal coy?
Well, I guess I'll stop when someone sees
through this filmy veil, and realizes that it's
all an act, piercing that part of me that wants
Usually my guts spill out onto the floor and footprints
are left all the way to the backdoor as they find their
Ahh! That explains the coyness...those bastards. I'd kill
'em for that. This should be published in all the literature
distributed to men--though I doubt it will, for that would
be female treason.
That's right, and I'm a Benedict.
Then I'm the French.**
So was Edith Pilaf*, which brings us back to seduction.
Wow, it has been getting really cold in here since we
started stripping, so let's clothe our banter in swaths
Fucking glorious! I say let the words drip and spray
from every gap...in the conversation.
Which brings us back to vulgarity. This one should
end soon, not to say it's trite, but the bite has been
bitten, and while performers are smitten, my
throat is getting really sore, so release me before
Then let us, please, be coy no more.
Reprinted with permission of authors
[*Edith Piaf is a French singer, Pilaf is a
**Benedict Arnold went over to the
British side during the American
Revolution not the French.