Sonnet VII (fml)

Well this crown project has turned out to offer an unintended insight into my writing process: the early (unrealistic) enthusiasm, the near-immediate commitment to a massively underestimated amount of work, followed by a quick loss of interest, the nagging reminder that I've agreed to do this thing, and then the slow, near-unending slog.

Actually this sounds like my approach to marriage too. Anyway... I have written the seventh sonnet! It was miserable. You may be miserable reading it, but here it is.



And we are audacious, indecent, indiscreet,
the match that sparks the neighbors’ busy tongues,
wagging from behind their window screens.
See her lifted skirt, her hair undone?
But what is gossip to us who are already burning,
ablaze in the furnace of lust’s cruel design?
Even their whispers are singed now with yearning
for the press of your sulfurous mouth against mine.
They imagine the gnashing, the terrible gash,
and aren’t the rabble terrorized, transfixed
to see if the slut is bloodied, broken, slashed?
If it takes a fallen woman to claim this kiss,
then poppet, then pet, why hide what we can flaunt?
Let them curse us, let them hurl their taunts.


If you are new to this torment and would like to catch up on the crown of dinosaur-erotica sonnets (why, why, why did I think this was a good idea?), you can start here.