Cupid’s Vanity

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sterday, which is not at all unusual as his affection for flowers is great. Tomorrow it may be as dove or swan and I ㅤㅤshall still chase him away ㅤ knowing well ㅤhis vanity – that he thinks himself ㅤㅤLove.All night as stars sang in lilting song I slumped, legs splayed over footrest of a Chinese moon-chair cloistered long within thought to once frivolous heart and desire’s burdening hold as lost love’s tyranny. Nearing dreams, ink curdling in my nib, came little beasties in a dance winged and shrieking. Their raucous a sinister gaiety of past, a prance in shiny exoskeletons, as if the humors to Cupid’s follies.Dusting off stars’ motes in wait to savoring the blossom of blood red blaze on morning, came a streak in bolt of crimson flame, ㅤhis quintessence as arrow rode with sun’s rising rays. Singeing its path upon this flesh igniting his gift of feathers –a pair in tethered wingsㅤ fell as burnt garb scattering beas

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ties in a laughter that roiled with the smoldering hovering the air in putrid array of ash.ㅤ What wrath has vanity, my thought, then shouted toward the clouds, MISSED!As the flow in fires cooled below this skin, in further rebuttal I chimed, Your wings never let me fly, they were the guise I sought you with. I’ve long outgrown ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ your game of desire. ㅤknowing love now, ㅤ you were but the tease to it. Another bolt came in streak across dawn this timeㅤits course –defeat, flaming into the sun.Some days are all about the sass! Note: It is important to remember a little bit of classical mythology here. Cupid has evolved with time into a cartoonish fat little cherubim shooting heart tipped arrows that prompt instant love. But, Cupid wasn’t an angel –the son of Venus and Mars– he was the Roman God of lust, want. . . Desire.©jef littlejohn 2019</article></body>

Cupid’s Vanity

Gulling Sonnet VI ~ by Sir John Davies

The sacred muse that first made Love divine Hath made him naked and without attire; But I will clothe him with this pen of mine That all the world his fashion shall admire: His hat of hope, his band of beauty fine, His cloak of craft, his doublet of desire; Grief for a girdle shall about him twine; His points of pride, his eyelet-holes of ire, His hose of hate, his codpiece of conceit, His stockings of stern strife, his shirt of shame; His garters of vain glory, gay and slight, His pantofles of passions I will frame; Pumps of presumption shall adorn his feet, And socks of sullenness exceeding sweet.

He had come as a hummingbird yesterday, which is not at all unusual as his affection for flowers is great. Tomorrow it may be as dove or swan and I ㅤㅤshall still chase him away ㅤ knowing well ㅤhis vanity – that he thinks himself ㅤㅤLove.

All night as stars sang in lilting song I slumped, legs splayed over footrest of a Chinese moon-chair cloistered long within thought to once frivolous heart and desire’s burdening hold as lost love’s tyranny. Nearing dreams, ink curdling in my nib, came little beasties in a dance winged and shrieking. Their raucous a sinister gaiety of past, a prance in shiny exoskeletons, as if the humors to Cupid’s follies.

Dusting off stars’ motes in wait to savoring the blossom of blood red blaze on morning, came a streak in bolt of crimson flame, ㅤhis quintessence as arrow rode with sun’s rising rays. Singeing its path upon this flesh igniting his gift of feathers –a pair in tethered wingsㅤ fell as burnt garb scattering beasties in a laughter that roiled with the smoldering hovering the air in putrid array of ash.ㅤ What wrath has vanity, my thought, then shouted toward the clouds, MISSED!

As the flow in fires cooled below this skin, in further rebuttal I chimed, Your wings never let me fly, they were the guise I sought you with. I’ve long outgrown ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ your game of desire. ㅤknowing love now, ㅤ you were but the tease to it. Another bolt came in streak across dawn this timeㅤits course –defeat, flaming into the sun.

Some days are all about the sass! Note: It is important to remember a little bit of classical mythology here. Cupid has evolved with time into a cartoonish fat little cherubim shooting heart tipped arrows that prompt instant love. But, Cupid wasn’t an angel –the son of Venus and Mars– he was the Roman God of lust, want. . . Desire.

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Cupid’s Vanity