A LABYRINTH OF MASKS

A labyrinth of masks,

a first draft of the flawed flowers

you exorcise from your darkness

as if your heart were coal

before the discovery of fire.

No one likes a real dragon,

but you’re fascinated with your own cremation,

your history of pyres,

and play with random ignitions,

throwing parts of your body at the beast,

your apartment the lair of a cat

and your generosity full of chains

and your eyes a question

you put in jeopardy of being answered,

and even the snake

that flows between your legs

to turn my dick to stone,

embarassed by the ploy,

and the little pink mice you breed

to be devoured

as you want me to take you,

not a diet I could live on for long

as you grew more curious

about why the black mirrors

that hover like a whisper of scales above my skin

disdain to destroy you.

You’re too wealthy

to have anything to steal.

PATRICK WHITE