Slice of Pie Glass of Milk

Yet another in my Dorian Gray series.  For Bjorn’s prompt over at dVerse, narrative poetry.

 

Slice of Pie Glass of Milk
“I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

The servant took his long black coat
dotted with shivering bits of rain.
The young man went into his library
and sat down in a green leather chair
after pouring himself some brandy.
He sat with his feet on the grate warming
his cold feet in their black John Lobb boots.
The servant hovered around him until he said tesity,
“Go away. Take yourself away for the rest of the evening.
I will get something from the larder if I am hungry.”
The servant left gratefully.
Clearly his master was in a foul mood.
The young man drank the brandy
in one pull and got up to pour himself another.
How dare she! How dare she go out with another man.
And laugh at him as she told him where she would be.
He stood outside the restaurant
looking at the two of them –
getting wet and cold,
the rain seeping through his coat.
She looked up and he could swear she saw him.
She turned to her companion and laughed.
He waited outside as the two of them went into the house
and he watched and waited until the bedroom light was darkened.
The rest of the house went silent and still.
He let himself into the house through the garden French doors and
quietly he tiptoed up to her bedroom.
It was but a moment’s work to slit both their throats
and then to go out the way he came.
The rain washed away the blood on his hands.
He felt hungry now and went to the larder.
The young man sliced himself a piece of game pie
and that wonderful cognac and apple pie his French chef had baked.
For good measure he poured himself a glass of milk.
He stuffed himself in front of the fire.
He smiled thinly.
Then he poured himself some more brandy.
Never would he gain weight.
Never would he show the effects of the most horrendous murder.
Warm and cozy now, Dorian Gray dozed in front of the fire,
all anger forgotten.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gra

 

The Picture

Another poem in my Dorian Gray series, submitted for Susan’s Midweek Motif at Poets United – sunset.

The Picture
Sunset.
The thin handsome young man stood in his garden
watching it bleed onto the smooth snow.
It was cold but inside the glass conservatory
attached to his home,
roses bloomed – red, orange, yellow, deep pink
echoing the colors of the setting sun.
He breathed vapor in and out,
like a golden dragon
not seeming to feel the cold.
He stood until the last vestige of color
leached from the sky.
In the darkness he stood and finally felt the cold.
He went inside and poured himself a sherry
and quietly walked to the secret chamber.
He looked at the hideous portrait
hidden from view of all except himself.
“Sunset old chap” he murmured.
“It is sunset for you.”
Dorian Gray gave a grim laugh.
“But it is always sunrise for me.”
He lifted the sherry to his lips and drank.

Encounter

For my post at Real Toads Tuesday Platform. Another poem in the Dorian Gray series of poems I have been writing for several years. the Café Royal is real and exists in London. It was the pied a terre for modern artists and wits such as Whistler and Oscar Wilde.

Encounter
“We have little time and lots to do, lets take time for everything we do.” Oscar Wilde
A year had passed since my husband died –
It was spring and I was alive!
I had married –
A rich old man married for convenience –
His!
He sputtered on top of me and-
Out, like a candle.
I put on the new dress of beautiful violet,
Second mourning.
I had my disapproving (and soon to be sacked) butler
summon a cab for me.
I was going to the Cafe Royal for their wonderful cafe mocha,
And to be honest,
To see if he would be there.
He had sent the loveliest note
And later, flowers- and more flowers.
Sedate and discrete of course.
My footman assisted me into the hansom
and of we clipclopped.
The doorman at the Café Royal assisted me out
of the hansom and looked askance at my second mourning.
I ignored him.
Into the large room I stepped,
suddenly afraid. What if he really was there!
the maître ‘d showed me to one of the discreet tables
on the side of all the filled, busy ones.
I ordered a café mocha and waited.
Suddenly our eyes met across the room.
The beautiful man – had not changed in a year.
As he crossed the room, a brown smudge imposed itself
between he and me – then disappeared.
As he came closer I saw him as an old man,
a roue’ – eyes filled with lust.
I felt I would faint.
He looked concerned and told one of the waiters
to bring me the newest thing –
iced water – a tall thin glass filled with ice
brought monthly from Greenland,
parked in huge blocks in warehouses on the East Indian Dock,
covered with sawdust to preserve them.
Mrs. Helmsworth, he murmured.
I could not speak. Again the vision of him
as an old old man.
He smiled but in his eyes
I saw evil.
I found my voice.
Good afternoon Mr. Gray.
He smiled, slowly and sat down across from me
and handed me a yellow rose.
In spite of me, I felt the heat.

The Refusal

For Bjorn’s prompt at Real Toads. He is asking for toxic emotions. Again, it brings Dorian Gray to mind. This is two in two days.

The Refusal
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple”. Oscar Wilde

He was astounded.
The woman turned him down.
She was sweet about it, in an American
Southern kind of way –
She looked at him with huge pansy brown eyes
and said,
Thank you. I appreciate it.
I have lost a dear friend and I am –
I am numb.
And she rose from the table and walked out.
She paid for her own drinks as well.
One of the Café Royal’s delicious waiters cleared the table
and looked at him with wistfulness.
He knew that look and this particular waiter.
He also had the waiter bring a friend as well.
He was angry. (how dare she refuse him!)
He was hurt. (how dare she refuse him)
He was mystified. (how dare she refuse him!)
Afterwards when the delicious waiters were sleeping,
Dorian went into the secret room and looked
at the portrait of himself painted so many years ago.
He wondered,
Did she see through him?
Did she see him as he really looked?
He went back to the waiters to awaken them.
Time for more frolic.

picture of Dorian Gray

Cafe Royal 06/08/2018

For Kerry’s Prompt today at Real Toads, Spec Fic (speculative fiction). We are to write a poem that is based on Spec Fic, dystopian, furturistic, horror, gothic. I am adding a new poem to my Dorian Grey series (character by Oscar Wilde).  The picture of the young Tony Bourdain is one of my favorites.  We were cheffing at the same time. I burned out and left the professional world, he stayed and became an icon.  He suicided, I am still here.  There is a lot of sadness about his suicide; we are of an age, had similar beginnings of our careers, we were at one point high all the time (it was a way of kitchen life in the 70’s and early 80’s), we both travelled extensively tasting food and experiences.  I miss him a lot.

Anthony Bourdain 1979


Cafe Royal 06/08/2018

“…your body is not a temple, it’s an amusement park. Enjoy the ride.”
― Anthony Bourdain
“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” Oscar Wilde

The third cafe mocha of the morning,
The young man with the antique face
put down his cup and stared at the handsome waiters.
The Café Royal always had the most…delicious waiters.
His eye was arrested by one of the waiters
taking an absinthe to someone –
It was 11:00 am in the morning.
Surely too early for absinthe.
He spotted her.
At the table alone, grief in every inch of her body.
She put down the newspaper –
Lowered it down slowly as if,
as if it were a baby or a
mortally ill cat.
The waiter flamed the absinthe for her.
He said something to her.
She raised her eyes to him and then lowered them.
Picking up the absinthe,
Picking up the newspaper.
The young man with the antique face
continued to stare at her until
she looked up.
She saw him.
For once he was ashamed of his actions.
He stood and walked to her table.
She looked at him from head to toe
and said
Nothing.
She lowered her face again and
one of the gorgeous waiters came
with another absinthe.
Don’t, he spoke. Please don’t.
He put his hand lightly on her wrist.
I know grief he said. I know pain of loss
and heartbreak. I’ve watched my friends dying
One.
By.
One.
She put her head down and began to read the paper again.
Upside down he read:
“Anthony Bourdain, 61, found dead by suicide”
For once he was almost human.
For once he almost paid for her drinks and walked away.
Dorian Gray sighed. What the hell,
One only lives forever.
He sat down at the table
and looked into her eyes.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gray – public domain photo

San Francisco, August 1967

Today for day 25 of Nanaporno, I am posting an epistolary poem for Rommy’s prompt: Virtue or Vice. She lists for us the seven heavenly virtues and the seven deadly sins. I am letting my old muse, Dorian Gray, speak for me.
I am continuing to hang with the Toads.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gray in Penny Dreadful

San Francisco, August 1967
“I like persons better than principles, and I like persons with no principles better than anything else in the world.” Oscar Wilde 

My Dear Arthur,
I am posting you a fast letter
from this right raucous lass of a city,
San Francisco.
A city of lust, sloth, gluttony –
All the vices one could ask for
And more.
The city abounds with restaurants,
from food eaten out of hand on the streets
to the poshest of restaurants,
some even on a par with my beloved Café Royale.
There is a “head” shop in an area called
The Haight.
One can buy any drug imaginable.
It is a sweet shop for adults!
The young people are beautiful –
Restless, peace eating, free lovers.
I shall devour them Arthur.
I shall eat and lick and fuck
them every one.
I am having a party tonight.
I wish you could be there to enjoy
them with me.
How you would delight in them.
I must go – time waits for no man, ha.ha.
Eternally yours,
Dorian

Either love or money?

The Mid-week Motif Prompt over at Poets United this week is “money”. I don’t know if this will fit or not but here is yet another poem about Dorian Grey. I’ve been working on this one since last year.  I am also posting this on dVerse Poets OLN.

Either Love or Money?
I was born wealthy –
Old inherited money, y’know?
But I was bored beyond belief –
so I sold my soul –
But you all know that already.
I was bored with going to the Café Royale
and being gaped at by the pseudo-aesthetes.
I was bored with buying my ties
collars and waistcoats from Liberty
and wearing cobalt blue and
wine coloured velveteen suits from
Krause and Sons on Jermyn Street.
The endless chatter of the wealthy,
The whining and begging of the poor.
When I was 110, I realized
I was bored again. All that money
all that beauty, all the drugs, sex,
And food – I was boredboredbored.
So here I am in 2017
and am even more bored than I ever was.
Do these people not realize they are murdering their home?
That they are living years beyond their means?
That the poor and homeless are still with us
and people still die –
by overdoses, bizarre diseases, in those
warehouses for the aged, by guns,
by automobiles, wars.
And I am still alive.
If asked what I would rather have
either love or money?
To use the parlance of today,
I would say, hell yes. Show me the money.
After all, it has bought me eternity.

Reeve Carney as Dorian Gray in Penny Dreadful

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