Monday, January 14, 2013

The tombs intone the spells of decay and heartache, they are using your voice. The fall from the craggy cliff- you pushed me, you taught me to fly, you watched my crushing demise. You are my wetness, my barren desert loneliness, the riddling sphinx with mauve lips and muscled flanks on the quivering, pouncing verge. The stories you whispered, night after night- my Scherazade, my lying minx. The visiting, azure gods all bear your face and scream your name, shake your torn heart in one of many fists. They slake their thirst on the blood that you poured into me. They pour you back into my mouth. I taste you. If I curl around within this womb a thousand times a thousand days, I would be born from you, I would be you, I would make love to you and be created again. You are my delusion, my machine, my oblique angle- the instrument that plays itself.
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