Beneath a Stone

Subtly sensual blacks and grays swirl
serpent-like behind my eyelids where
I hide hours beneath a stone-
mysteries of darkness.
When the sun sets my eyes snap open;
these moments I live
inside you. Images of energy
surround you, where my flesh walks
I curl around the tangled folds
of indistinctly drifting thoughts,
caught in the merciless currents of
incessantly surging obsession with passion.
I long to run down
the curve that arches heart to thighs
and catch in the hollow below
echoes of my blood
pounding for you as
words blow through me, inspire
your hands.
I must explore
your luminous landscape
flooded in tremors of stormy fire
our celestial efforts make;
and when the last restraints snap,
we reap pleasure's dance,
convulsively grasp lucid ecstasy
I'm compelled to keep us there,
accumulated effulgence filling us-
And when we soar for hours
I'll hide mysteries of darkness
beneath a stone.

by Jason Paul Fox

JPF says:

It's true, this poem was written for the sole purpose of seducing a young woman on a bet. For what it's worth, it was a gentleman's bet; despite Allan's teasing, I refused to put money on it. For one thing, I had no money to wager! Also, I already had adopted my personal prohibition against recreational gambling. (I'd rather just play games that are interesting enough that you don't need to bet money on them to enjoy tham.)

Anyway, the advent of the factually named Tiffanny Eager -- Bernie introduced her to me (against Allan's mysteriously strenuous protest) as a young woman he felt I should meet -- quickly sidelined the friendly seduction competition. The Three Poets in Black were no more.

Next year, the 19-year-old sophomore girl this poem is addressed to didn't suddenly stop being beautiful, though -- due to my quirky personal history, I was a 19-year-old college senior. And we were all still taking poetry classes. And her stuff was some of the best in class, as I recall. Not that she had much competition beyond me, that semester...

This is the poem I brought to class, handed out, and read aloud. After class, the girl surreptiously slipped a note in my hand. It was her dorm room phone number (I already had it) with a request to discuss this poem.

The truth is, in the end, I couldn't do it. I had a steady girlfriend back home, who sometimes cheated on me, but provided for my basic sexual needs... as the seduction progressed into its physical phase, the poetry girl repeatedly frightened me with her brain-fever. She would begin to pant and get patchy colors all over her pale mostly-naked body as I tried to warm her up, by which I mean sexually, her whole body bacame hot as if in a fever, she trembled almost as if having a seizure.

The girl gave me permission to engage in intercourse with her, so I considered that winning the gentleman's bet. Perhaps, in the end, this story is merely an apologia. She apologized so profusely for being unable to "do it," crying as she made as if to leave, as I insisted she must stay if she was upset... my fingers knew that she had been "able" to "do it," she said I could "do it..."

I wonder if, a little over eighteen years later, that girl or Bernie remember me. As for the sweet girl we wagered on? I prefer to remember her as she was, such a beautiful little nymph...


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poem, illusration and web page by JASON PAUL FOX
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copyright 2007 Jason Paul Fox