writes a poem about nudity (in collaboration with Olivia De Berandinis
). Katie West
responds. Neil approves
. [consider the entire post NSFW]
Text of the poems for those who don't want to click.
I am continually disappointed by nudity
decently covered breasts could look like anything when revealed,
the nipples might be eyes or snake heads or flowers glowing gold,
they might be anything, but never are.
And as for the rest of it, the whole between-the-legs business,
when I was a boy, and simply wondered about women, why back then
it was the mystery of mysteries,
and now, grown up
I still think,
I wonder what she keeps hidden, down there, beneath that cloth
imagining miracles and mysteries and dreams
conjuring secret mouths and lips that smile and sing
craving petals, tentacles and stars,
desiring the unimaginable.
The reality of nakedness
makes me mutter Jesus Christ with delight and awe as well, of course,
but still, the revelation is in its way prosaic.
Just another gentle biped with bumps and flesh and cleft and hair
always looking just
a little bit more awkward and less interesting
than when she wore clothes.
Katie West - Neil Gaiman, I love you, and I’m not wearing any clothes.
If you think seeing a naked woman
is a disappointment
because what you had imagined was so much
better than what was there, may I suggest looking at it in a new way.
Maybe instead of pondering
the tentacles and mouths beneath
you could ponder the bright things
that lurk beneath her skin. You can look
at her glistening pussy lips and wonder,
must run through her body to create
that overflow of wetness. You can look at her breasts,
dark and sensitive and soft, feeling
in your hands like the greatest of treasures, and come
up with multiple theories as to what lies
beneath them that could possibly make them mould
to your touch and respond so enthusiastically
to your tongue.
Her body is so much more
miraculous and dream-worthy and mysterious
when naked than when she wears clothes.
The mystery has never been what might be
found under her clothes; that is just something of hers
because she thinks you to be clever. The mystery
is in imagining what writhes under her skin that makes her body move the way it does;
what worlds are inside her that create a gravitational pull so unyielding;
what makes her body a fertile ground, enough to grow the tenderness
of her gaze, the audacity of her courage, and the ferocity of her tongue.
The mystery has always been
how you plan on maintaining your cleverness
for just long enough
to convince her to let you stay
with her, there,
and naked, too, beside her.