Don’t want no twisted fucked-up agony of a relationship
tying all my lifestreams into Gordian knots
I keep thinking I’m slicing through
to stay true to the snakepit
yoked to this deathcart of a body
that prophecied one day I’ll rule the world
when in fact I’m only cutting my own throat
to prove to you again and again and again
I don’t want to
cross my heart and hope to die.
The cut worm may bless the plough
but that’s not the same as falling on your own sword
or slashing your wrists on the moon
or nicking small wounds in your flesh
to indulge your addiction to severance.
I don’t mind cutting the occasional birthcord
or parting the waters of the Red Sea now and then
to let the chosen ones
on their way to the promised land through
where we all drink milk and honey on the moon
as if it were flesh,
but I don’t want another affair
that aspires like a hawk of fire
to one mystical extreme of love
only to fall like a guillotine on the other.
The rarest orchids of sex
may well bloom in the shadow of an outhouse
according to the oxymoronic nature of things
but the real obscenity
is uprooting them like weeds.
I don’t want a relationship that bleeds
before it’s even wounded.
You can steal all you want from me
if you can’t accept it for free.
You can take the moon from my window
the star from my dark
the hot jewel
from the hand of my demon
the gates down from my hovel in heaven
and if it makes you happy that’s okay
because I don’t care how I’m given away
when I love someone.
I live in the Eocene of a dark abundance
at the beginning of things
and there are eras of space
between my thoughts
that are filled with strange unwitnessed stars
that keep mum about fate and fortune
and the legends of scars to come,
but I can still feel my lover’s eyes
even over all the long excruciating transformations
of the shapeshifting years between us
looking at them like a myth with chandeliers.
And the dead branch blossoms into butterflies.
And the wine takes the poison
out of the deadly nightshade of our bitter tears
and joy doesn’t taste the salt of reason in its wound.
A woman is the only window
I’ve ever seen God through
like a firefly caught in the hair of a willow
that puts the stars to shame
with every flash of light on earth
that blooms in the night of her name.
The clarity of the fool
is not lost upon the wise
but I don’t want to work my ass off
to put another woman through goddess school
to learn that not all her slaves
are masters she’s overthrown
and the tribute I lay on her temple stairs
is not the Greek horse of a tragic farce.
If I rub the lamp of her body
to free the geni inside
to grant all our wishes
that doesn’t mean
I’m just another cork
bobbing on a sea of Bhakti devotion
trying to stick it
to another message in a bottle for help.
I just want to come.
I don’t want to come to the rescue.
I’m looking for the sweet narcosis of that oblivion
that follows rapture
not another maritime disaster.
She can be doing laundry like Nausicaa
when I wash up on her shores
like some reject in the tide
or she can be the siren of the island
who’s got a father with boats and oars,
or she can be the queen of sacred whores
holding court in the temple of Isis
where the johns keep wondering
what the price is
to lift her veils
like black sails on the dark side of the moon
and kiss the enlightened eclipses of her eyelids
like the heads of holy snakes
without being bitten twice by the same vice,
and I won’t quarrel with any mask she makes of herself
even if it’s one of my own
because true love knows how
to go down on the Medusa
without turning into stone.
One breast kills
but the other heals
and there are no mirrors
in the way it feels to please her
when you know your way around.
She might wear the deathmask of the moon
but there’s always a nymph
in the heart of the crone
that doesn’t want to be on her own for the night.
And the less you look for her
the more she will appear
like a doe come down to the water to drink
the moon from her lone reflection
or a cougar moving from shadow to shadow
Impotence is the holly
of aesthetic desecration,
a lot of negative space in a fist
trying to get even with its thorns
by stoning Mary Magdalene to death
because she was beautiful and free
but that’s just another halo
on the horn of obscenity
trying to gore a virgin on a unicorn.
A woman is not the mudflap of a big wheel.
She’s not the witch at the end of that candle
that keeps going out
like an eternal flame
in the morgue of a black mass
that keeps shapeshifting the blame
between a goat and a jackass
for its lack of horns and hooves.
Sex might cast its spells
over the wide-eyed realms of heaven
slumming in the nightclubs of hell
in the auroral lingerie of intense pleasure
but it isn’t trying to stick pins
through the heart
of a voodoo doll gone bad
to avenge her miserable sins.
It’s a bigger magic than that.
It doesn’t foul its own coasts
trying to sell skin to ghosts.