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.