|
E.Sing it out, now, my child, or the song will stick
in you like the shards of a ball-point pen. Sing out
the vowels and shores of sublimity, expelled from the
perfect circle of your mouth, each arcane character
possessing circumference and diameter, shaped by the
copper bowl of lips, the secret letters which are all
circle, and so are all mine, escaping the garden of
linearity with their one good trick. Turn, turn within
and greased with fire comprehend the union of
insouciant five and a ballistic curve. Such seraphic
intonations find their way south to the cactus which
will speak only harshly bracketed and parallel
consonants, and there sigh in union exploding in
desert tongues the nova of first speech. Pierced and
hung sagging like messiahs on the delicate
whisper-quills, of corpses, of above-ground tombs, of
sarcophagi and sunken cheeks. Closed eyelids that
begin to bear their happy mold like green eye shadow.
(But not yours, my love. I alone bear the grammaticus
of your death, fluttering within like a heart murmur.)
Once the letters have been broken all things become
transitive.
If I lean into you now, clothed as I am in the
watered silk of eyeless eels, would you yield up the
crystal bubbles of these letters, would you feed me on
their diamond blood? If my breast should brush your
arm would you shiver and give me all that I ask? Dip
your spoon into my cheek as though it were a bowl of
cream and read the leaves of the wound.
I will build you a cathedral of embodied screams,
beautiful child. And it will stand in the village
square shrieking and screeching, swaying under the
strength of its own thousand voices, the unending
vowel of a woman's cry which is a prayer. All I ask is
a word, a singular parabola, all curves and circular
fission, the sine wave of oracular script, the shape
of the mouth echoing. One, one, one, one word, one
utterance of your candied diaphragm, one slippery
contraction of your brandy-slick throat and I will
throw up cities, palaces, empires of frozen
howls. From my earlobes will swing silver censers and
from your navel the reliquary which will draw pilgrims
from scented lands. I will lay you down in the pews,
and smother you in circles, in zeroes, in sliding
caresses full of garrulous radii. Can't you smell the
wood oiled with oranges? Can't you just taste my
salted eucharist?
Here is where holy lies hidden like a badger's tooth,
here under the thick moss and grasses, here under the
green and the roseate granite, the eyes of thirsting
salamanders. It is not quiet here, we are well within
now and night serrates the throat. Hiss with me
towards the moon, bend backwards into basilisk
ideation and the furl of fern-wands drinking the fog.
It is all curve, all arch, the spine crackling
upwards, serpahic, whole, bending into the shape of a
drawn bow, the rim of a drum, and I will release my
arrow from your bones in the end. In the soothsayer's
mouth rustle coltsfoot and uncut diamonds, and when
she gnashes her pretty teeth, oh, my love, what a
sound it will make! Jewelled dust will spurt from her
mouth like poisoned semen, and I will drink it from
her lips with rapturous pupils, only to bring it back
in the goblet of my mouth to you, my own, my lovely,
and won't it taste sweet. All things I bring to you,
to offer in a chorus line of opiate flesh smeared with
lead, puddling around your perfect fingers.
Walk with me, with your pink hand clutched in my
lunatic fingernails. There is so much yet to see while
the stars are screaming. You still do not see the
subtlety of the pelican's beak piercing her moon
bleached breast to feed her chicks with blood like
warm milk. Such a delicate incision, the red hyphen of
her painted wound. It is in this manner that I
instruct you, that I make you my own downy
pelican-child, that I push you backwards into an egg
of beaten snow. Look at her settling in her nest like
an abbess. Look and understand, press your lips to me
and drink.
|
 |
 |
