1.
This
flower is fire red,
a
core of vermilion,
petals
petulantly open.
Within
the folds of stamens,
filaments
and fuzz
is
a centre of cunt;
a
descent into primal void,
into
primitive violent being.
The
taste of it
in
the mouth
is
sour, musty, intoxicating:
the
taste of blood
pulsating
to the ululating tide
of
the moon.
2.
What
I mean to say though,
writing
in the dust with bones, is...
my
dreams are peopled with holes:
tunnels,
entrances, openings;
a
crazy paving of windows and doors.
I
am constantly a victim of movement,
squeezing
through constrictions,
falling
or flying through dead, silent air;
and
in my dreams, always
I
awake to the ubiquitous wan, grey light
of
sleepless morning
yawning
scratching
armpits, face, thighs,
rubbing
never-quite-awake eyes:
the
petals of yesterday like dust
to
the rusted clock's restless ride
And
what is on that other side?
An
unattainable, unimaginable light!
3.
Through
this blood flower,
through
the angry vibrant red of it,
the
root of our collective being,
the
root of our animal soul,
we
struggle towards the light.
It
is no accident
that
this spectrum starts in red.
We
are all blood:
cunt,
cock,
meat,
flesh;
intestine,
artery,
vein.
4.
To
dive into red
is
to be swallowed by cunt
to
relive
the
clamped agonies of our birth
in
anticipation of death
and
the ultimate constriction
from
which there is no release...
death
is the place
we
have truly learned to fear
suspecting
there is
no
hallucinated rainbow,
no
fantastic flight...
only
unspeakable blackness:
a
void,
the
ultimate negation of light.
Read more of Dee Rimbaud's
poetry
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