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the eroticism of flowers

image: black iris by georgia o'keeffe (1925)

i have this passion for flowers. flowers - such finely sculpted botanical entities. so sensual, exotic, and exquisite. so colourful, flamboyant, and filled with delicate strength. but -- my passion extends only to flowers with a visible throat. flower throat: the tiny and delicate cavern that's set into its heart - where all the petals converge. therein lies the beauty of a flower - its undulating curves - its many unspoiled and mysterious gorges, so smoothly velvet. does its beauty also lie in its symbol as a creative force of nature? examine closely the work of georgia o'keeffe. burgeoning with sexual imagery.

image: jack in the pulpit IV by georgia o'keeffe (1930)

i have catheterized many women. and just as many men. what i noticed? that, just like no two flower petals look alike, so it is with women -- they differ in their blossoms. oh so slightly, only. in the most minuscule, infinitesimal way. the female flower seems, to me, a most finely carved flesh sculpture. still ... when i look at the image of jack in the pulpit, undeniably, i know what i see. i'm sure, dear reader, you see it too.

image: red canna, by georgia o'keeffe (1923 )

whenever i used to doodle flowers in my notebooks during high school physics classes, i always found roses' throats the finest and most scintillating pieces to doodle. i never considered why. perhaps its that all those curves, gorges and finely carved petal edges create the deepest beauty any eyes could behold. and that those petals, which look so frail and weak, exist solely to bring the sweetest fruit to bear. i have this image burned into my head: a succulent fruit emerging from a flower whose petals are splitting and wilting.

metamorphosis, sensuality, and desire.
that's what my soul thinks of
when my eyes see a flower

what do you see in a flower?


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It is Croak.
I think your piece is very very important for all women to read. I appreciate your honesty and openess that show us women that we are indeed individual and special and by expressing this, through flowers you connect us back to the Nature herself and raise us up to loving heights.
Beautiful. Thank you.

dear croak;

thank you. what a lovely way of putting it. i had that sentiment in my head, but could not find just those words to say it. i'm convinced georgia o'keeffe was thinking of this too when she painted those. even tho she denied it.

dear croak ...

i read the comments you left on my 'black dove' post ... which i have decided to delete ... you are so perceptive ... but i thought maybe it was a little too over the top ... and in a fit of madness deleted the post.

thanx for your kind words. :D

i will try this again...(blogger is most difficult this evening - the fiend)

i've always loved georgia o'keefe and the power of her flower images and the flower metaphor. i wish this image, this metaphor was more prevalent in our every day life, so as to counter, or perhaps balance the ever-present phallic images we live we.

time to ponder some petals. hahahah - that made me think of the 70s and the women's self-help health movement - self-exam.

yes yes yes ... bird u r right ... it feels like a see phallic images everywhere ... most annoying.

flower power ... !!! the power's in the flower ... and power to all flowers everywhere ... yeah!

(ok ... apparently i've inhaled too much 'crushed medication dust' ... lol)


This post is freaking hot!



comic - welcome and thanx


I can't decide what is more beautiful....

The images you've shared....

Or the ones you've painted with your words....


:D ... this is my tribute to women ... everywhere ... thanx for your kind words, wistful.

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its all about ME

  • i'm roxanne, and this is velvet, the voice inside my head. and this -- this is her blog.
  • i'm that wild, passionate and unruly girl your mum warned you about

    i'm a maelstrom, a whirling dervish, a minx. i run from "same-ness" - i find it oppressive.

    change is good. change is necessary. life is change.

    if change scares you, if change intimidates you, if change makes you uncomfortable, then you're a BORE!

    this blog changes to reflect its continually evolving creator - moi.

    so ... adapt!

    you never know what you'll find when you get to velvet's place. that's the adventure of it all.

    this place continues to take shape, as velvet finds her voice in all this darkness.

    velvet rants, rages, throws the occasional hissy fit, launches the odd venomous tirade, and intellectually contemplates all the stuff of life, love, and soul

    its depressing, and enraging because the world burns and crumbles before our eyes. yet we sleep.

    we sleep. apathy, greed, power sit atop our eyelids like lead weights

    so, welcome to my world.

    i aim to pry your eyes open, to pry your mind open, to get you thinking outside the box, to shock you even.

    i ask the questions most choose to ignore. i think the thoughts most consider unthinkable. i'm alive. i'm awake. are you?

    hey -- WAKE UP!

  • fury wrapped in a daffodil, confused, undecided, wild child, indigo child, impatient, insomniac, rebellious, outspoken, artistic, restless, bored with routine, i love change, afraid of commitment, i work to live - not live to work, claustrophobic, perfectionist, odd and maybe downright wierd, anxious and maybe a l'il (ok, a lot) neurotic, dichotomous, a teensy bit vitrolic, prone to nastiness, a maverick and a cynic, highly intuitive, sensual, erotic, intense, spiritual -- NOT religious, a bitch, a wordsmith, poet, storyteller, addict, mother, caregiver, dog lover, voracious reader, Mac person, Coke drinker, cannibis appreciator, clean freak, prone to hissy fits, attitude - i got one, fav. colour: red, perfume: estee lauder pleasures exotic, voluptuous, afraid of falling asleep, afraid of the dark, hate being touched, still get flashbacks - PTSD, nite hawk, into fetishes, got a sadomasochistic streak in me
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methuselah lives here

    i have several poetry blogs on the 'net. essentially these contain the same stuff, just presented in differing formats. this methuselah just likes digging around in more than one corpse at a time!

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    scribbles & scratches



      afghan hound

      yes to madness





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    velvet poetry

      bell jar dreams

      you held me in your arms,
      my trembling alabaster fruit
      and savagely,
      you trampled me, underfoot
      as master of my shattered freedom
      you - the twisted and beautiful lord
      who sealed me in a windowless bell jar
      with anguish and solitude,
      as my only companions

      captor! my demented master!
      my withered soul screams for you
      it howls for the soothing barbs,
      hidden, in your voice
      and your frail, orgasmic vulnerability
      my withered soul screams your name,
      raging delicately,
      for the gaping hollows of my existence,
      which melted into yours:
      dessicated dreams,
      vanquished innocence

      this sick hunger in my heart for you -
      will it ever ebb?

      copyright ROXI G 2006

      your grace grotesquely crumbles

      your grace crumbled
      into grotesque flakes
      as your fingertips slashed
      my tender silken face
      with rage and vengence,
      that drench my frail child-spirit

      steeped in self-loathing,
      you infected me -
      my gauzy soul
      on your poisoned barbs
      of hatred and lusty greed

      once, i loved you -
      worshipped you, adored you
      and darkness
      eviscerated my heart
      as i watched this adoration stream past
      your inert, stoney heart

      my trembling eyes splinter
      into a thousand tears
      when i look upon your face -
      my reflection - in the looking glass
      you, who deserted my child-trust -
      remain, achingly, ever present

      this dark riverbed of adoration
      that flowed in my viscera for you
      has dried up; my heart --
      which once glistened sublimely inside yours,
      now lies in eternal anguish:
      dessicated, petrified, searingly denuded

      your grace crumbles
      into grotesque flakes
      of grief, rage and greed,
      soaked in the brine of remorse
      you beg, like i did, for a morsel of mercy
      but -- i will STARVE you of forgiveness

      copyright ROXI G 2006


        "there's no way around grief and loss: you can dodge it all you want, but sooner or later you just have to go into it, through it, and, hopefully, come out on the other side. the world you find there will never be the same as the world you left." (johnny cash)

        "i wore black because i liked it. i still do, and wearing it still means something to me. its still my symbol of rebellion - against a stagnant status quo, against our hypocritical houses of god, against people whose minds are closed to others' ideas." (johnny cash)

      poetry masters

        if only you would touch my heart
        if only you were to put your mouth
        to my heart
        if only you were to put your tongue
        like a red arrow
        there where my dusty heart is beating,
        if you were to blow on my heart
        near the sea, weeping,
        it would make a dark noise,
        like the drowsy sound of train wheels
        like the indecision of waters,
        like autumn in full leaf
        like blood,
        with a noise of damp flames
        burning the sky,
        with a sound like dreams
        or branches or the rain,
        or foghorns in some dismal port,
        if you were to blow on my heart
        near the sea, likea white ghost,
        in the spume of the wave,
        in the middle of the wind
        like a ghost unleashed,
        at the seashore, weeping.

        ... Pablo Neruda, from 'Bararole'

        By a route obscure and lonely,
        Haunted by ill angels only,
        Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
        On a black thrones reigns upright,
        i have reached these lands but newly
        From an ultimate dim Thule -
        From a wild wierd clime that lieth, sublime,
        Out of SPACE - out of TIME.

        ... Edgar Allan Poe, from 'Dream-Land'

      anais nin

        "and the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

        “i do not like to be just one anais, whole, contained. as soon as someone defines me. i do as june does; i seek escape from the confinements of definition.”

        “i speak of relief, perhaps when i write; but it is also an engraving of pain, a tatooing of myself.”

        “we are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.”

        “life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. this is a kind of death.”