She parades into my dreams:
her impudent pudenda, an open,
intricately carved
flower. Bees and stinging things live
within,
waiting for the soft whisper
of invitation. She is...
vinegar and vanilla, vaseline
and vagina.
She is a cascade of
vocabulary: vibrant and vivid:
the supreme vivisector of
vacuous idolatry.
Her dictionary is a thrashing
of ten-fold limbs; and all meaning
is encoded in the fluttering
of her labial wings. I am a prisoner
to her intelligence, her
volition, her erudition.
There are pale blue men
working her Siberian pits,
freezing;
and all for the want of a
kiss.
Lying out on her gypsy brass
bed, she smokes a cheroot:
staining the walls with
disdainful agitation - her cheeks,
red as those of Modigliani’s
whores.
The blasphemies of pigment
beguile: viscous rivers drain the soul
of every homely warmth. Her likeness cannot be caught: it eludes
with simplistic ease. Teasing, she baffles me with the pink
virtuosity
of her tongue.
In vain, I reach out to grasp
her grassy banks: yearning
for the safety of a foreign
shore; the heat of inevitability,
the dark depths of her
cavities.
It was she who devoured my
strong ancestors: she who left Christ
crying and gasping for
breath. What hope then for me,
with only my clotted
paintbrushes and second hand adjectives
to protect me?
The future, I see, is a
glassy cold pit: yielding nothing more
than small handfuls of flawed
diamonds.
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