Sunday, October 6, 2013



Precipitate woman, star sapphire, crystal elixir
distilled from the nebularity of your saddest disguises
when your eyes weep like lonely windows
from your doe-skin medicine bag. Is your heart bad
or just bruised? Fire-sylph languishing in the ashes
of your deepest desire, or disappointment taken
by surprise you’d have to sink bells deeper
than you have to sing like a drowned mermaid
to the lovers you left dog-paddling in your wake
still in denial you didn’t swim back to rescue them?

Male. I am. Fool? Only by my own hand. Born
to succumb to the female principle of the world
I’ve built no temples in my honour beyond
the occasional gravestone to mark the miles
I’ve endured this dream of mine to love
and be loved, though you can’t say that without
feeling kind of hokey, nevertheless, it’s a doorway
to a good guess. I’m an unsigned loveletter
without a return address, sealed in blood and roses
and a harvest of thorns in eclipse I threshed
with my heart like a matador tearing his cape
on the horns of the moon because only
by their fruits can you know them like wine
trashed in the sands of an hourglass that smashes
like the Pleiades against the skull of Taurus.

I’ve been watching your eyes lie for hours now
as they had to without harming anyone, from
the other side of the room and I know you’re dangerous.
You know how to keep the dead in their graves
and somehow make them feel relieved about it
as if their lightning wasn’t up to the storm
though you were amused by the way they thundered
like a distant windfall of ghost dancers at dawn.

I was many lightyears out at sea before
a pink morning warned me I was out of my depths
as the waves rose and fell like the breasts
of a woman sleeping beside me oceanically
on the moon, her hair like a willow on the edge
of a precipice where lovers leapt to their deaths
as the lesser of two consummations of suffering.

I see the infernality of your avatar in an orphanage
of forlorn voodoo dolls, and the mistrust
of your longing to traffic in lust for the sake
of a taste of love that might still blossom
in the heart of the apple that fell to the ground,
the taste of stars in the fertile crescents of sex
that open gates of mud brick glazed with lapis lazuli
and towers that stand like lighthouses in wet deserts.

Moonrise in the black lace of the treeline, I’m
not immune to the persuasion of your lunar mirages
but now that I’m older, fire-master of the dragon
I used to be, I’m a distinguished pyre that doesn’t
burn easily for anybody that can’t steal me
like fire from the gods I’ve neglected to worship
for the better part of a life I’ve lived as if
I were chosen to thrive in exile like a noble pariah
that placed no faith in the religious superstitions
of his long fall to paradise without a shadow of proof
to show for it except these nightshifts of solitude
where I hammer out stars on the anvil of my heart
into a bestiary of extinct zodiacs, sundials
like lapwings and swords of moonlight I mean
to give back to the waters of life in due course
they were once wounded by without spite or remorse.


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