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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock  She sat, her arm draped along the back of the chair, cigarette dangling. “But that’s not what I meant at all.” Chastened, he tried to think what he had just said to her but could not recall a single thing. He had been watching the couple on the other side of the garden. They were…. “Not at all.” He turned to stare at this, his woman, this woman who he had known for how long now? For nearly 20 years give or take. His mind filled with a million words, none of them appropriate, none of them he could say to her, not a word she would accept. He held his silence. The sun began to sink quickly. She stabbed her cigarette out with a viciousness that startled him. He rose slightly as she stood, watching her stride off, then sank back into his chair. There’d be hell to pay later but for now, he was quite content to sip his wine in solitude. The couple he’d been watching were a bit older. She’d left for a few minutes but now that she was back she had herself pressed against him as he fed her bits of food, ridiculous really. Yet somehow, it made him feel almost jealous of the old fools. She seemed smitten that’s for sure. He’d like to get closer, see where that man’s hand was under the tablecloth. Oh for goodness sakes….they must be 60 if they’re a day. Still, awfully cozy. Are they leaving? He watched as they stood. Good lord. The man’s attaching a leash to her. To this thing around her neck. He’s leading her out like a pet! I wish my bitch of a wife could see this. And just like that, here she is. She sat back down. He couldn’t help himself, he pointed. As the couple passed by their table, his wife smiled at the woman and asked, “ feeling better?” The woman nodded, smiling as she trailed after the tall man, not breaking stride, following her man proudly, her posture erect, her nipples prodding the soft cashmere of her sweater. “Shall we order dessert?” He looked at his wife, at a loss for words, yet again. You cannot conceive the many without the one. |
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I love Elliot I like the quartets the best I think but the love song.......well, it holds a special place for the rebels doesn't it? You cannot conceive the many without the one.
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  Vive La Difference
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12/6/2016 4:43 pm |
I'm intrigued but I'm also lost? so it must be good. face piles of trials with smiles.. MOODY BLUES please feel free to visit my blog happy blogging
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*grin* I love this post.
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Thanks for that. A surreal read for me! Read my blog here guy4frot
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Interesting Read  Visit my Blog Older but no Wiser and find out more
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There's a little song by the Doors that says something similar- "Cars Hiss By My Window": I've got this girl beside me, but she's out of reach. Been there, done that. There are times I think consciousness is a curse more than a blessing. Become a member now and get a free tote bag.
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I think I have told you personally, but I want this publicly, too. Your writing in the last few weeks has been above the fray, So good! Wow. I will have to search for the title and read up on this but I think I already understood but like Do_Re_Me said, it might be a "goil" thing.... Major Kudos! kk The observant make the best lovers, I may not do right, but I do write, I have bliss, joy, and happiness in my life, Kitkat Come check out my blog KItkat1415 check out this post by me Adventures In Body Grooming #39 April Topic Link: What Lies Beneath If April Showers Oh Bloody Hell What Kind Of Weather Turns Me On Bloggers Symposium 40
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I've only started following your blog and I'm intrigued. I love your prose but I need to keep following. 
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12/7/2016 4:42 pm |
I'm intrigued but I'm also lost? so it must be good. I was right , but I guess I was afraid to say what I thought.. sexy as hell..  face piles of trials with smiles.. MOODY BLUES please feel free to visit my blog happy blogging
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The woman nodded, smiling as she trailed after the tall man, not breaking stride, following her man proudly, her posture erect, her nipples prodding the soft cashmere of her sweater. Bravo.
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heh -- I remember YEARS ago, a local cafe put on their chalkboard "Come measure out your life with coffee spoons!" evidently not understanding that could be construed as a BAD thing to do, and as a not fully alive way to live one's life. Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish. ~~ from Antony & Cleopatra
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