The Blind Poet and the Maiden
The legendary Greek poet Homer shares a teaser trailer for the benefit of a beautiful young fan.
“A sequel?” Someone squeaks.
Homer recognizes the voice. It’s that one delightfully polite girl, lush in both manners and figure. These traits of a graceful lady’s personal character are not revelations a blind man can attain without help, but she did help. A lot.
“Yes, Love, a sequel.” Homer nods sagely.
“To The Illiad?”
“No, my other story that everyone likes.”
As a young boy, Homer hated his blindness and cursed the Gods for it. But now he understands that all things are a gift from the Gods. The loss of one gift, like sight, isn’t a loss at all, but a trade for other gifts.
In social settings, Homer’s blindness serves as a dramatically intimate introduction to voluptuous beauties of the Balkans, like this hiccupping mermaid addressing him now. I won’t spell out how such a conversation goes because it is a little silly. Imagination will suffice.
So much is visible there’s scarcely any mystique to be had, but locations of interest are not large. concealed with a haphazard impracticality that drives women’s fashion. That dressing is bound covers, and girl is the story ready to burst, her first page an invitation to open, if you dare try.
With no trouble at all, without introduction or even the semblance of a prologue, she outlfanks the most cunning general, a flutter of an eyelash scattering his forces. The slopes of her fluttering marble-white pages snatch even the most stalwart man astray from his senses, marrying him instead with humorless rocks that a more alert navigator might have seen.
What a lush shape to enrapture all audiences, all hail! The most softly lush beginning, impossibly tapered waist, and blossoming end to a defining testament of human perfection!
Indeed, a delicacy draped by clinging fiber. That simple whisp of silk teases admirers with an eyeful of mischief, arousing hope only to thwart it with hard questions, unsolvable puzzles behind the veil, mysteries only the young lady herself can answer. Meet the softest and most womanly of creatures, adorned with black curls and armed with a warm tongue, the virgin is of few words and many expressions, maddeningly playful and erotically stubborn, and impossible to ply with empty song.
A swift capture followed by skillful persuasion, all inflicted without end and no regard for mercy, only this maneuver alone will break the spell.
Once subdued, she will have no fight left to stop the death blow. Slip through the gap in her armor and explore that soft spot, the one only she knew until now. The one that makes her shriek and wake the dead. Rumor hints at below the navel, or maybe her ribs.
As aloof as she is, the virgin knows of her Achille’s heel as much as the next person, and knows with equal assurance a hero will one day pierce it. She is unable, or unwilling, to resist what’s soon to come, a fate with an hour already predetermined.
“A sequel to The Illiad then?”
“That is what I said.” Homer shrugs.
“How heavenly” She takes what might generously be described as an attempt to sip from her cup. The wood goblet’s contents slosh about, quite narrowly missing the ledge over yonder into the oblivion between her legs and table.
As evening attire fitted for a siren, the girl’s dress needs only a single glance to share a story of intrigue. What kind of story? Why, both a clever riddle and an ancient tradition all at once.
Imagine poetic beauty better than any tale spun by man, imparted without a sound, but not without peril. Be warned, think twice, or at least reconsider! Pursue alternative adventures! If you must bander away your time, do so in a more safe way. Consider instead this; wade to the edge a whirpool with an anchor in your arms! A deadly force of nature, but still less deadly than temptation delicious enough to make your spine tingle.
That dress resembles the bound covers of an overfilled book, and the girl sandwiched beneath is an exciting story ready to burst forth an enthralling adventure. Her first pages cleaved together an invitation to open, if you dare try.
With no trouble at all, without introduction or even the semblance of a prologue, she outflanks the most cunning general, a flutter of an eyelash scattering his forces. The slopes of her fluttering marble-white pages snatch even the most stalwart man astray from his senses, marrying him instead with humorless rocks that a more alert navigator might have seen.
One glance, no matter how hasty, is enough. Too enough! So much is visible there’s scarcely any mystique to be had, but locations of interest are not large, easy to conceal with the signature haphazard impracticality that drives women’s fashion.You see, the danger isn’t posed by the cloth, but by the shadowy treasures beneath it. There’s no delicate specimen who needs cover more urgently than this dark-eyed beauty!
She’s mouth-watering beyond the kennel’s threshold of safe viewing, as one can tell from the dogs pulling at their leashes for a morsel, and she’s just as ravenous as they are. Mutual conspiracy is a foe that may strike from one, the other, or both sides in unison, prepared in secret and unleashed with no warning.
Averting such a disaster requires nothing less than unwavering vigilance. One unguarded moment, one door ajar, one late sentry, one misstep however small might spoil everything. Left to her own starstruck devices, the virgin might be swallowed whole with no chance to savor her, not even a little.
The male race is safe from her witchery for the moment. One can hardly command a man’s senses when she’s hopelessly lost her own.
“Will you sit there gawking, Dear Guest?” the Mermaid croaks with the grace of a sloshy frog. “Or will you share?”
“Share what now, Sweet Daffodyl?” Homer rejects her advances coyly.
“You know what now! She parts her lips to give the cup a kiss men can only envy for now. Oh no! Those lips, as delightful as they are, cruise with the precision of a ship devoid of crew. They aim for wine, only to slurp thin air. Crimson liquid sails instead down her dress. This catastrophic collision of aged grape and white wardrobe. Such a sad destiny for such a beautiful gown!
More than a fasionable disaster, a tragedy fate just spun, white canvas deflowered, only tears now.
A fasionable disaster, a miracle resisting laws of nature spun by fate, and also by fate unwove. White canvas of an artist deflowered, only tears now.
Mourn one last time and then let go. Remember what was good and now lost. Imagine an acrobat dancing on the edge of a knife, her sheer white garment is opaque enough, though not by much. How quickly things can change in an splash of tipsy-topsy mind and slick fingers. Too late now!
The pollution of heartlessly spilled vintage has taken its toll. Drenched red, the scandalously stained fabric isn’t opaque at all. That poor girl’s incompetent battle plan, assuming she had a plan at all, backfired. Her modesty suffered tonight, and there were no survivors.
None of this distresses the maiden. It’s not clear she even noticed.
“I insist you tell me the name of the story, Homer!”
“Fine, I will.”
“And…?”
“The Illiad 2.”
Ian Kummer
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