THE HELL OF A WOMAN SCORNED

THE HELL OF A WOMAN SCORNED

I. The Visage of Ire

With scorching sun, purple-crusted visage, it howls,

Garnished by weeping morn and frenzied dusk;

A rubicund ghost, fairer than its sallow shadow,

Cast on open mines of sick-thoughted gall.

With more brawl and brawn at her lilies

Than the sum of villains and vilest summers,

She is haunted by beguiling sport at her beck.

II. The Withered Harvest

Twice as short as passion on withering lawns,

Her pleading tongue enraged; she is prone to ire.

Derision-hood envelopes the pith of fair villains,

Harrowing the dunghill of the soul.

At her beckoning, harvest cannot come

Where tillage has long withered in bickering trenches—

The puny caisson of a straining harp.

Plead, O Legend, let the fickle bid farewell;

Filthy cannons slam from the tongue that banished peace.

III. The Neanderthal & The Virago

Still blushing, hung on the brash tide of petulance,

Thou, de facto Neanderthal, fickle and Mongolian,

Castrate the dunghill to bid a final farewell.

Stuck gizzards douse the storm with much ado,

Feisty, capped with a feigned garb to clown its vestige.

The falconry cannot be faulted; fait accompli

Betrays the betrayal itself.

IV. The Onboard Tryst

Fondled by strangers onboard to perk the thigh,

He speaks her love-bait while frenzy hooks the gait.

She lends her brute delectably for dementia’s frenzy,

Callowed by a studded bridle and jocular vulgars.

Her Amazons are twice fairer than the shadow she throws,

A flower of self-esteem, nimble-shelled and abiding.

That growing fire, stunned by the madness of acrimony,

Is quenched by a pleading tongue tied to its rudder.

V. The Dialogue of the Flesh

“Look how I am tied to thee; resistance cannot resist.

Under thy lustful eyes, I am fatigued as rivers into oceans.

Even thy worst is my delight; rapture is wooed at thy table.”

He refutes her: “Was I not servile at thy coy?

But brawling brawn I detest. Give me no contest,

Then thou shalt be mine, even as I am thine.”

VI. The Sarcastic Prank

He saith unto her in a horde of sarcastic pranks:

“Fondling with pantomime and caricature does not pay.

Why love to live and die in the fury of the unscorned?

O forlorn queen, your madness is a fait accompli.”

She inveigles under her smitten garb, hounding the unwary.

Her nostrils send out fire like hell to shoot rashness;

She veils her tent until the moment she strikes.

VII. The Counterblast (A Final Dialogue)

He: “I’ll pay a price for thy ransom, to let go the bimbo

In this den of attrition, before the wounds sore the marrow.

An honor deserved for tranquil days and a glorious dusk.”

The Termagant (Entering):

“Chide first thy abode, thou sadistic mole of machismo!