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Dear Sigmund | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. It is with some trepidation that I reestablish contact with you after more than a century’s passing. Having gauged the alternatives and weighed the consequences, however, I feel my only recourse is to avail myself of the pen in the interest of recommencing some version of what you referred to as the talking cure, when last I was under your treatment in Vienna. Send to Email Address.

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Elona | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. When a bit later in the evening the very same man (who had further ventured to share his preferences regarding grooming habits insofar as private parts were concerned) learned that her name was Elana, and not Elona, he lost interest altogether. That simply. The reason she continued to go down to meet Harry was her penchant for the obscene which was the only thing you could call it,...

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Burn It Down | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. My ghosts are dying. Their moans a distant sigh. Chains that once rattled. Fall chink, by chink, upon a dusty floor. Enveloping me in the haze of brutal silence. Amorphous at the mercy of my own incapable design. I know not where my home lies now. An orphaned puppy, desperate to savor. Mother’s haunting milk …. That succulent, kindred abuse. And lie at peace, with belly full. Email...

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New York Stories | The Bohemian Heart

http://www.thebohemianheart.com/prose/new-york-town

Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. All of those things, I could not live them. There simply was not enough good in me. I wanted to take people and shake them and tell them to stop it, just stop it the charades, their look, the pompous self-indulgence. It filled me with disdain. With hatred. And I wanted to bash their heads in. If they would only. Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window). Proudly powered by W...

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Apotheosis | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. His flesh the altar,. My body the prayer. In the union of our souls. My savior, messiah, holy eternal flame. His every kiss an elixir of peace. To soothe this ravaged heart,. Healing with the nectar of love. I confide in His skin. Confess upon His sleeping brow. My silent, illustrious sins. Sins of rapture and abandon. The humbling awe I swallow. At the very beating of his heart.

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Documentary | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. Tokyo on the Hudson. A profile on Sensei Masataka Mori, one of the last of a dying breed of traditional Japanese karate masters. Last Seen with Johnnie Knight. The legend of a small-town serial killer. Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window). Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window). Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window). Leave a Reply Cancel reply.

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The Love of a Woman | The Bohemian Heart

http://www.thebohemianheart.com/verse/the-love-of-a-woman

Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. The Love of a Woman. He has the love of a woman,. As weak as its savage strength. No seedy, repugnant desire of man. It is this love I cannot deny. I wither, it is not mine. I am allotted only pieces. Whose ends, once coupled. Would hold the power and depth. The heavy scent of inseparable union. My aching overwhelms, even. The abortion of sweet patience. Crushed, worse maimed.

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Samson & Delilah, Resurrected | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. Delilah lied. Delilah dissembled. Delilah had been false. One reckless, intangible act. A great man. No more. But what of Delilah? The gaping hollow in her bosom, coursing with the detritus of disgrace, that would marshal her to a very private abyss? She raised her hand to God and drank the poison. Just enough to wet her lips. This time. Email check f...

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Verse | The Bohemian Heart

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Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. My Mother’s Perfume. Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window). Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window). Click to share on LinkedIn (Opens in new window). Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window). Click to share on Google (Opens in new window). Click to email this to a friend (Opens in new window). Click to print (Opens in new window). Leave a Reply Cancel reply.

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Used Goddess | The Bohemian Heart

http://www.thebohemianheart.com/prose/used-goddess

Skip to primary content. The Painter of Sunflowers. Samson & Delilah, Resurrected. My Mother’s Perfume. The Love of a Woman. It was not so much the alcohol that was her Achilles’ heel. Truly. She had considered it. For she never had blackouts (anymore) or did anything she deemed regrettable. Rather, it was the psycho-physiological aftermath that left one feeling like one’s own private, war-torn landscape: vitiated, laden with detritus. Last evening had shaken out to be an uncommonly besotted pursuit.