I didn’t want to wait on my knees
In a room made quiet by waiting.
A room where we’d listen for the rise
Of breath, the burble in his throat.
I didn’t want the orchids or the trays
Of food meant to fortify that silence,
Or to pray for him to stay or to go then
Finally toward that ecstatic light.
I didn’t want to believe
What we believe in those rooms:
That we are blessed, letting go,
Letting someone, anyone,
Drag open the drapes and heave us
Back into our blinding, bright lives.
When our laughter skids across the floor
Like beads yanked from some girl’s throat,
What waits where the laughter gathers?
And later, when our saw-toothed breaths
Lay ys down on a bed of leaves, what feeds
With ceaseless focus on the leaves?
It’s solid, yet permeable, like a mood.
Like God, it has no face. Like lust,
It flickers on without a prick of guilt.
We move in and out of rooms, leaving
Our dust, our voices pooled on sills.
We hurry from door to door in a downpour
Of days. Old trees inch up, their trunks thick
With new rings. All that we see grows
Into the ground. And all we live blind to
Leans its deathless heft to our ears
and sings.
Does God love gold?
Does He shine back
At Himself from walls
Like these, leafed
In earth’s softest wealth?
Women light candles,
Pray into their fistful of beads.
Cameras spit human light
Into the vast holy dark,
And what glistens back
Is high up and cold. I feel
Man here. The same wish
That named the planets.
Man with his shoes and tools,
His insistence to prove we exist
Just like God, in the large
And the small, the great
And the frayed. In the chords
That rise from the tall brass pipes,
And the chorus of crushed cans
Someone drags over cobbles
In the secular street.
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”
Then I think of you in bed,
your tongue half chocolate, half ocean,
of the houses that you swing into,
of the steel wool hair on your head,
of your persistent hands and then
how we gnaw at the barrier because we are two.
How you come and take my blood cup
and link me together and take my brine.
We are bare. We are stripped to the bone
and we swim in tandem and go up and up
the river, the identical river called Mine
and we enter together. No one’s alone.
Goldaline, my dear
we will fold and freeze together
far away from here
there is sun and spring and green forever
but now we move to feel
for ourselves inside some stranger’s stomach
place your body here
let your skin begin
to blend itself
with mine
You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.
I have a blck look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.
There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.
Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kidss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouts as wide as opera singers;
counted the star, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.
“…throw roses into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.”
- Friedrich Nietzsche
Is this a Zelda song? It sounds familiar.
Yeah that’s the joke
(via nouvelle-nouveau)
less weedy
yo this got radar’d! Thanks @staff : ~ )