WHEN THERE WAS WINE IN THE GOURD, NOT VINAIGRETTE
When there was wine in the gourd, not vinaigrette,
and we didn’t put a brown paper bag
like an executioner’s hood over the bottle
we drank from each other’s skull like an sos.
Crazy elixirs that tasted like poison at first
until I fell in love with what they turned me into.
And the way you could purr when you were drunk
and I stroked you under the chin like a mantra, aum,
just before we made love to each other as if love
were a sin, not a virtue. Our irrationality was above
the reproach of the little test-tubes and telescopes
taking water sample of our tears to see what
what absurdities polluted us like acid rain.
We made love to each other and we couldn’t
stop laughing at the way people squirreled
their emotions like black walnuts away
in the heartwood of the tree that engendered them.
We weren’t being mean. The humour was existential.
And the last laugh was on all of us.
Just some very serious things seem funny when
you see them from a certain angle, unafraid
of making the same mistake twice, thrice, four times
a night, until there are more embarrassed mirrors
in the house of life than there are mice.
You wore huge moon hoops in your ears
and even your earlobes didn’t break the circle
we were orbiting around each other in
like a binary star system in the grip
of each other’s gravity bridging the gap
between us like a suspension bridge of toffee
or the action of dark matter at a distance
that spun silk mandalas out of its spidery psyche.
I overloaded your server, and you, mine.
After that there was nothing to opine about.
We were selfish, mad children amusing ourselves
with alternative zodiacs the astrologers
had forgotten about like ghost towns when
the moonlight ran out like a silver mine.
With you I lived six months of my life
as intensely as a war torn dragon ever wanted to.
You orgasmed like a supernova in a black hole
that had bitten off more than it could chew.
We exceeded the limits of each other as if
life weren’t fast enough to catch up to our afterbirth
like the light of a star in an ancient galaxy
millions of parsecs away from telling you where
it’s at now. We were finger printed like emission spectra
for the labyrinthine legends of our personal history
and as for the intimate details of the rest, they’re
just going to have to wait until they’re dead
to ride the flying carpet of the flesh
like a wavelength pulled out from under
the noose of sex they tied around their necks
like umbilical cords giving birth to them all the time.
Fire, fire, fire, in my loins that wasn’t fathered
by a mystic note sewn into anyone’s coat
when I see God framed like a woman in a window
fixing her hair for the night, plumping the tresses
of the willow who avers she’s mourned long enough
for deaths and abandonments she can’t do
anything about. Love would make martyrs of us all
if we let it. I wonder if the autumn leaves
ever wonder if they’re dying for something
bigger than they are when they immolate themselves
like moths and loveletters in the candelabra
of a tree they’re drawn to like crows in a winter sunset?
You were the amazing water sylph at the prow
of the moon ploughing the sea like a dolphin.
Seabirds and their reflections burned like kisses
on your shining skin and the poetry didn’t
have a cruising altitude where the worlds level off,
and we, who had drunk from our skulls, knew
of a certainty no one else could do our dying for us
so why let them live our lives, as if
wild grapevines had to grow like English cucumbers.
We were hated for this kind of freedom
to heed ourselves like two hurricanes on nightwatch.
And whenever you were pink, it was
a warning and delight to a seasoned sailor
who wanted to drown more deeply in you
than the moon would ever be able to again.
Love with you wasn’t a reward or a punishment
or training wheels on a dream no one
could make come true and remain
spontaneous about it, which kills it as a gift
and makes it more of a wage, than a windfall.
Our senses lit up like the eyes and fingertips
of enlightenment emerging from the dark like stars
we were quantumly entangled in like
the old moon in the new moons arms, or lovers
in a sacred hotel room that didn’t leave bibles
in its drawers for sinners who have trouble
sleeping at night even with the mirrors covered
with veils nobody can see through to the other side.
I never expected you to make the exit that you did
but, then again, every Perseid has its radiant,
and somebody’s got to wish upon a falling star
just to cover their bets in case the emergency
fire alarm breaks its glass ceiling and secularism
isn’t right, and anthropomorphism sees the light
and man is adorned by the garland and the garter
of a female god that fills the mangers
with fledgling messiahs that win their wings
after they fall for her without any spiritual parachutes on
that will return them to earth gently again.
God bless the meteor that wiped me out
like a species that had to change like a raptor into a bird
to be worthy of the moonrise it sang its heart out to.