Manuela Cardiga's Blog, page 75

WRESTLING ROSES

My Muse the Rose Declared my prose verbose.
That pesky Rose Has rooted near my heart,And probes thorned fingers To test at every part.
I must confess Such pain delights,And so I draw That tender thorn And call “Encore”,Dear Rose, au coeur…
Though I must advise, To reach The inner chambers Of this heart,Such a dainty prick Will not suffice.
You must find A stronger, Longer spike
To batter Your way inside.
Manuela Cardiga

A POET TO HER MUSE WRITES HAIKU TO CONFUSE

Dark-threading almond blossom
Across a cherry moon
Tongue pearling down
The taste of you

Be thou asleep my Muse?
Now its bloody haiku
And I hate haiku.
And bad haiku too...

Is it not amusing,
To so feed
Thy burgeoning ego?
I have a feeling it is quite insatiable…

(As you see my adoration
Is unstable and wavers
From absolute to dissolute)

Which is why being loved
Does not thee satisfy;
So I shall keep my heart,
And feed thee bad poetry
In lieu of love quoth true;
Which thou wilt see
Of necessity
As marvellous indeed
For how could it be other wise
Being so inspired?
Would such incandescence
Wrestle reluctant worship
From mediocrity?
NEVER!

All Muses love their poets well,
Believing the mirror cannot be flawed,
That can such perfection tell…


Manuela Cardiga

LOVE ME LIKE A MIRROR

“Do you want me”, you askAnd smile that green-eyed mischiefI so love:“Do you want me, And how much?”
So very much…Why should you doubt?How can you doubt?And then I sense Under the light reparteeSomething unsatisfied, a holeA space, a lacking : unfulfilledAn aching place that will notCannot be filled.
And I reach out and bareMy own wanting though I knowIt will not answer : Your desire must first be For  another part A sliceA spliceOf your very own heart.How can you love me,Or believe my loveIf you do not CannotWill notLove yourself?
Manuela Cardiga

Buy this book and wallow in a world of "GUILTY PLEASURES"!

Excerpt from Guilty Pleasures“Can you believe this, Will? Here we place fake dew on berries, for people who sell fake dreams and pay real money so they can eat real food without anyone knowing. Amazing. They go out and eat macro/micro/molecular or whatever is in fashion for the week, when their bodies crave something fat and rich . . . we are like a dirty secret. They come and eat with their hands and they lick their fingers. Here is the world.”Lance laughed and shook his head.
Serge waved the spray mister about. “People are ashamed to eat good food in decent portions in public, but you get a two-bit whore teaching bored housewives how to give great head on morning TV.” He sighed and shook his head. “And let me tell you, she didn’t know what she was talking about. Best practitioner of fellatio in the world was the Empress of China.”
Lance’s jaw dropped. “Empress of . . . are you serious?”
“What an artist . . . the man could make a stone come. He was a eunuch, a real pure from birth, reared in the Forbidden City. He trained us—the new arrivals—decided on our speciality, and our look. He was an old, old man when I knew him, but he still had all his own teeth, and was limber and graceful as a gazelle. A very wise man. He told me I had to decide, as a freak, if I’d rather be a clown or a demon. He said we oddities—and he spoke from experience—attracted the cowardly and the cruel. Easy targets for the unimaginative, you see.”
Lance nodded soberly. “A wise man, your friend.”
Serge smiled grimly. “Yes, he was. So I was the demon, and Yusuf was the angel. What a spectacle we were, Will. Food for the gods’ lust, or the devils’. Yusuf was a hermaphrodite, see. Beautiful, Will. Never have I seen a more beautiful face. He had breasts and a body to make Aphrodite weep with envy, and a man’s prick he had, but the Empress always presented him fully clothed in a long white virginal shift, his hair loose like an angel’s, and then he’d wet the shift down. It would cling, see, the breasts of Venus, the prick of Mars. Some bastards would pay to see us freaks together.”
“My God, Serge, how did you stay sane?”
“Willie, things are simple. You do what you do to survive. We all pander to the powerful’s desires, don’t we? Only today, it’s even worse. Since survival is practically guaranteed, these people obsess over the basic things that signify survival—food and fucking. My father said that when the few value our art the most, is when the many are the most hungry. He was right.”


Look for "Guilty Pleasures - The Food and Fornication Fables" by Manuela Cardiga

TODAYGet it online or at a Bookstore near you! 



http://ph.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/books/detail/108


Or on Amazon, Barnes and Noble or Kobo

as as e-book or Paperback!http://www.amazon.com/Guilty-Pleasures-Manuela-Cardiga/dp/1612131921/ref=sr_1_31?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1385422100&sr=1-31&keywords=The+Writers+Coffee+Shop

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STORY FROM A SILK PAVILLION: PALE YELLOW; THE INK, VERMILLION

A fisherman
By a still lake
Caught by chance
In his tangled net
A Cormorant-maid
Drawn up
And panting
On the land
Half-bird
Part-woman
Strange and sad.

The Cormorant
Twisted under
The fisherman's
Gentling hands;
Kindness deceived
And the serpentine
Sinuous thing
Parted it's beak:

"You have saved
So for a moon
I will stay   and dive
And bring what
You may need
To repay this boon.
But only for
This one Moon."

Now the sly
Fisherman
Agreed, and she
Brought to him
From that deep
Silver, pearls
Jade and the
Cold fire
Of Burma rubies
Red as her blood.

That night he spoke
Of love and touched
Her long black hair
And whispered her fair
And the Cormoran-maid
Cold and afraid
Trembled and laid
Herself down.

In the morrow
The fisherman-lover
Begged of her:
"Oh stay and love
for yet another Moon
And a day..."

But Cormorant-maid
With her long dark hair
And gold mad eyes, cried
"I cannot, must not delay..."
And the Fisherman sighed
As if in sorrow
And made such play
On bitter sadness
That the foolish Bird-maid
Did say "I love thee,
And will return..."
And bent down
To drown
His frown
With a hundredKisses.

He wiped a tear
And vowed to wait,
And offered as pledgeA crown...

He held in his hand
A circlet of water-bright
Offering glass-clear
And sparkling love.

Now the Maiden
Trustingly knelt
To accept the
The love token
He made to bind
Upon her forehead
And found herself
Collared instead.

And that,So it is said
Is how Fisherman
Came to bind
Cormorants;
Light collared to dive
For silver treasure-
Choked by love
To deliver
All the precious things
They find In hopes of love
From a mind Of a like kind.

Manuela Cardiga

LIZZIE BORDEN TOOK AN AX

I have loved life
Much longer
Than I have loved you,
So I know
There is no loss
Of love or limb
I cannot survive,
And in this case,
Only amputation
Will suffice
To cut that bind,
That thing
Between us two-
End it -
Cut it through.

Whatever pain
From what love
May remain
I will cure,
The phantom
Twitches
Of my heart
I will endure.

Come now,
Don't complain!
Must I yet again
Explain?
This is your will,
Not mine!

So hold still;
Don't struggle so,
While I strike
That final blow
And sever
My heart from you.


Manuela Cardiga

CHOOSING CHOICE

When we decide
Define or design
For ourselves
Life-paths
We are fools.

Everything is fluid;
And fluent fate
Has no word to
Explain or express
The universal jest.

You turn
You run
You scorn
You rage
And reject,
Yet patient life
Brings you back
To the cul-de-sac
Again and again:
Until you choose,
Until you lose
Your fear of pain,
And embrace
And love
Yourself
Again.

Manuela Cardiga

THIS IS JACK SHAPIRO'S FAULT CAUSE HE WANTED A RHYME WITH A PENIS IN IT

What rhymes
With a penis
That's a little
Too quick
To the finish?

Of course
It's not all
About time
(Let's not be shallow)
It's also about size...
Also technique?
But do not let us
Over-analyse!

Seriously now,
If we really stuck
For a rhyme
We can always
Change our mind.
We can also try
A prick, or a dick?

Manuela Cardiga

THIRD TIME LUCKY

Three
Is the Charm
They say,
And don’t do
No harm.

But me?
I don’t agree:
Ask you once
Ask you twice
Pray I don’t
Ask thrice
Cause that’s
A drop-kick
Out of my life.


Manuela Cardiga

LESSONS IN LOVE

“You are a bitch,
Like your mother”
She said,
And I nodded
Inanely as if
I hardly understood
What she meant.

I’d recently found
Being quiet
And looking stupid
Had served me
In good stead.

Besides, I was five;
And not supposed
To get the subtleties
Involved, or the
Acid hate distilled
In her voice.

So I picked up
The ball of twine
And quietly began
To wind and wind.
After a while
She almost smiled.
“Thank you,” she said.

And that was when
I first realized:
A modicum
Of approval
Was to be had.

If I could not
Be loved
I could be
Useful
Instead.

Manuela Cardiga