“UNICORNS AND DARK CHOCOLATE: Eros, Aphrodesia and Existence"

California poet Marques Vickers’ edition “Unicorns and Dark Chocolate” delves profoundly into an exploration of the inspirations behind the ancient concepts of Eros, Aphrodesia and Desire. Over 300+ concise poetical compositions examine the mythological orientations behind Vickers’ own personal formation and attitudes regarding sexuality.

i know love
as abstraction
long resolved
abandon is youthful indiscretion
mansions of cards
poised to fall
i offer
less
a lower ceiling
torch in a darkened cave

 Vickers observations regarding inspiration and eroticism are capsuled in his work about Pele, the Hawaiian God of Creation:

pele

where the black river flows towards the red sea
this is the cradle of love
love be the bloom that flowers amidst the soul of the wind
elusive to the grasp, pleasing to the taste
injurious to the palette
we seek, we seldom find
what we find exceeds the sought
measure, treasure each mystery
each divided heart
understand, but never are we able
i know of love, i have known love
wiser, but foolishly i still seek
the measure of what i believe
and know love to be

While his mind engages consciousness:

lost in thought
a world
where a fleeting memory
becomes flesh
i in you
you in i
locked in a summit
expectation
severed only
by the absence of time

 As a painter, Vickers must elevate his brush to visually express. As a poet, he must raise language beyond the evident and obvious:

i can offer language
a peppery tongue oriented to season
your blandness of existence
but never the prospect
of accepting
a candied coated prison
as its price tag

 Art is romance, romance is art. His transparency of thought becomes his instrument for transfiguration. His language remains as concise and distinct as his tinted and tainted palette:

i imagine you pensive during your pose
i imagine your own desire surging
do you wonder what passes
through my thought process
while i depict you
i note all
i perceive the rebellious eyelash
unfettered towards abeyance
to the regimented others
i scan the slope and horizon of your cheekbone ridge
sculptured with precision by your creator
the harmonious curvature of woman
as she was intended for display
in all men’s imagination
a sonata of synchronization
dancing and flowing
bathing nude and naturally
as the costume from
which we entered existence

thorough burn

love is a choice reserved for clarity
encircled by the darkest night
commencing its slow fire and thorough burn
emitting openings of flame, pensive reflections
caught are we in webs of attachment,
nooses of emotion
awakening one morning to the realization
our lover is ourself
our union, evolvement of annexation so profound
we breath our lovers breath as our own
lacking you this very moment
aching for the consolation of your touch
well aware that i am myself no longer
but the kindred of our shared souls

 Employing his own unique humor:

you are more apt to find
a sturgeon in your toilet
than wisdom at happy hour
more likely to sight
a raccoon in your elevator
than reconcile a bigot
all is probable
it took fifty-two years to gain this insight
fifteen seconds to squander it

And pathos:

lies of omission

as we wait for our long slow goodbye
goodbyes betray artless intention
goodbyes are not good morning
not the warmth we await
heat that once penetrated
still in our natural state
the anxious state of a single soul
anticipating the sensation of love
two bodies, two mouths locked
a precious twist of shared fate
there are always complications
with goodbyes
rejection defies tenderness
once a tether is severed
spiked with malice
honor is for cinematography
sentimentality impedes action
goodbyes come out wrong
rehearsed scripts steering radically errant

Through self-examination Vickers shares his own elemental search amidst the chaos of existence. He summarizes his own investigative process by:

i don’t skim the surface with words
it’s the marrow i carve, probe
the thoughtful inflection
of a mortal wound
the gentle gash
of a slashed artery
the balm of sulphuric acid
it is what art should and rarely pricks
the consciousness of the slumbering mass