Thursday, July 16, 2009

Ilium, Tonight

Tonight you begin your ceremonial cleansing
after your indenture as a galley slave.
The droopy eyes of your freckled ghost hangs below,
tired after a long hard labor, as it catches its reflection
on the mirrored streets after a sleety rain.
It tugs at your elbow. A drowsy gnaw escapes from its lips
in drools of cotton smoke.
It knows that suffering is a padlock fastened to your freedom.
That love began with her apple and shall end with your dust.

Tonight the galley will be closed for the freedom
to shine through.
But the stony ramparts of your mind are sealed and you run towards the No Exit.
You run towards him that walked on water and now stands on your parking lot.
The word dribbles from his hand and melts.
You search in vain for it in the grains of sand
or among the jetsam of your childhood dreams.
Your ghost knows that truth alone is not enough.
And that faith is a beautiful visitor who seldom stays.

Tonight you will burn in the cauldron of your love
with her face as the oil.
It was your prize to see her naked in her tower of atonement.
She tore your mother’s mourning cloak. She breached your walls and cut your throat.
And she made you sit on the altars of immortality.
You now stand near the gates of your Ilium, poisoned by your freedom.
The proud forts have all fallen and the stars have crumbled to dust.
You only hear a dirge-like whisper playing upon his harp.
“O you children of liberty, to suffer is to be free”.

Monday, May 18, 2009

An Ode to a Bitch

He is closing in on her funereal lore.

Hands dangling. Arms wrestling. The snot-green plenitude of smoke invades her clubbed nostrils.
Her breath mingles in the quagmire of mirth, a fortress of silent craving.
The filth, that her love defined, is lost in the voices below.

Her gown sucks her memories down. A slow, greedy gulp of a succulent leach of truth.
In her barrenness, the devil cries fowl. She humps the moonlight and skins the beast.
The orgy of summer whispers melts in her mouth.

He has finally come to seek the answers. Answers that are the hyacinths of the past. Her past.
Fledgling, dry and cavernous as her lover’s sea cave, they strip and crumble on her womb. Her tomb.

This city is a whorehouse. A desert of neon-lit velvet brothels that we all call the Universe.
Naked lovers moan to the umbrella’s dirge, while her papyrus god swoons to the sad con-man’s song.
Hoodlums breathe the perfume of the moths. In the red tower, Ophelia with the cat masturbates to Van Gogh's corn.

He drowns his flotsam in her menthol cigarettes, watching the greedy corn-licker
tying his hands around his mace. He has been waiting in her room.
A wait to touch the tendrils of eternity. To wrap it in your skin.
To feed you with a spoonful of polystyrene stars.

The anemic sky unfurls in his poetry of silver chinawares
and a lost girl who cannot swim.

All things are nothing to her. But he knows there will be laughter and forgetting. There will be clicking of absinthe glasses.
There will be the desire to leave. There will be the need to touch and let go.

There will be rain.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

As You Leave

It’s time now for you to leave
Your incense
burns beneath my feet
As I stand lonely
near the yellowed decks
of a marooned wharf,
the tamarind day melts away.
Cloudless dreams heave
into the ocean
of your dying twilight.
Your half-parted gloveless lips
are a cold stony silence
of a lost ecstasy
or the cathedrals
of muted surrender?
Your touch of empty Vaseline
and the murmur of nail polish
on your parched feet
Dust mites
of my leafy existence
hover near your eyes,
in the papery fringe
of your breath.
And as the abandoned waves
of my dry sea
drown in the mirth
of your darkness,
I know you have to leave.