THE LOVELY YOUNG LADY

There is a lovely young lady

(you know her), the one

In whose soul you’d swear

Ambition speaks in such muted whispers

You might take it for selflessness,

Until, she deems you, like me, benign

Enough to offer a glimpse within,

And then you’ll see…

(As I saw, you shall see)

How, in fact, her soul shrieks,

Indeed, incessantly shrieks

For its elusive reward;

Pitched, though – as from one

Of those curious whistles –

So high that only dogs

And I (and, perhaps you) respond;

Still, she fancies those sacred vibrations

Resonate in her alone.

Oh, never do I tire of studying her:

Obliqueness and indirection

Are essential to the game –

Detachment vital.  For it would be

Like studying the foam on a wave

As it swells to sweep over me,

If I am passive to the charm

Of her lassitude.

So, ensconced behind doorways

Peering from many a discreet angle

And at carefully chosen moments

I watch her loll

Her solitary body on her solitary bed

With that indolent sensuality

That one lover for another reserves.

How wondrously curious she is:

Savoring through distended nostrils

The warm fragrance of her mouth’s exhale!

How thoroughly content:

One moist inner thigh coupling the other.

 

THOSE WINGS

Unable to refuse gross or even subtle demands,

Yet failing always their every execution,

The young boy huddled in his chair,

The young boy made himself small and waited,

Waited for the sound of his name,

A sound to activate him like an automaton…

A sound to propel him onto yet another failure.

(And I could but observe, doing nothing).

If fear, hate, confusion, if dread and desperation:

If all these were given a singular body,

And that body, given movement,

You would clearly see it

(As I am daily doomed to see it),

See it hovering over him now.

More furious than a composite monster

Dredged from the midnight imagination

Of history’s every witch and child,

You would see this fiend,

This ogre with black and veiny wings,

Bearing down on him that moment,

Pushing down his fragile shoulders,

Beating against his bewildered face.

(While I — I can only sit and watch

His torment as my own);

Still…

At the sound of his name

Yet another creature, an indefatigable

And no less seductive, self-invented creature,

Would whirl through him,

And invade him, blood, fiber and brain,

Would send him staggering onto his feet;

Defiant!  Ablaze!  Striking out —

Though with strangely cautious rage;

And the ogre would rise from his back,

But to soar the while above him,

Nipping now, and now again

At the slope of his shoulders

And rumpled hair, patiently waiting

For another failure,

For the laughter

(For my hidden tears);

Then…

Inevitably then, it would fall again,

Fall over the frail body,

Push him down, down.

Those wings!

That dreadful left wing,

An impenetrable blanket

Over the past;

That horrid right wing flapping,

An opaque skin

Flung on the future…

(And I am left to watch

And watching, weep.)

 

THE BOOK OF GENITALS

Before the beginning,

When there was only God,

He writhed with the pain

Of Heaven and Earth

Within His Belly.

He birth’d and then…

There was the Sun,

Distanced from the Nebula;

And the Sun looked out

From the Nimbus

Of his savage heat

And he saw only the Darkness

That he illuminated;

And he felt the pain

Of his own congestion of Alchemy.

On the first day

Out of necessity, he spewed out Earth,

While he remained Earth’s Heaven.

And Earth, as a remnant

Of the pain of birth,

Circled ever around him,

Desiring the fatal re-union.

The Earth, revolving, desirous of love,

And unable to approach

The love it desired,

Spewed up from its entrails —

Out of its desire —

Man and Woman,

Who would forever remain rooted,

Not out of love,

But out of Law

To its mother, the Earth.

So the Sun established the pattern:

Necessity out of pain.

The Earth established the pattern:

Desire birthing its own necessity.

The Sons and Daughters

Of the Sun’s Earth

Established the pattern of both:

Law, which they defied;

Desire, which they deified.

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