In my silence I am mysterious water and fire, an earth, moon, sun and sky in rotation, stillness is an illusion. Cells within cells, stars penetrating stars. A prophesy: life within life within life and my virgin mouth drinking from your sacred cup.
All life force flowing in beautiful chaotic balance, arms outstretched, infraction, inversions, neophyte eyes, moon pale fingers, strange beliefs, abandoned bodies floating on hymns in the dark.
In dreams I am a nightmare, a withering womb is pierced and invaded, I am consumed and taken by collected spirits of another world, they nourish me as they feed upon me. We belong to each other.
Not the way of this world: deeper.
My black tears distract you as you try to impress on me the nature of a thing I attempt to write about in ink languages but fail, though I can sing to it, though I move within it as my sins line themselves back to back; revolutions in constant in the veins destroy entire cities as you walk through me in the rain.
I’m in love with the walls that make me furious, golden archways and vines made of catgut strings. I’m tired of the small world, I’m hungry and exhausted. The milk of your instruction is no longer enough.
I remove my nightdress, lace, satin, crimson, pulling and dropping over my head, skimming my lips and shoulders, I lie down beneath you and wait like an animal pacing at dusk.
My dear thief, give me something I can teach, something breathable, something with teeth. I suckle the beauty in your courageous crimes: the way your steady advance cuts through every inch of my thin body, the force of your touch can raise me crawling in the streets half across the world.
Rich soil still beneath my fingernails, grave diggers, night creatures, ancient codes buried thick in tomes, in my nakedness, in my dark benevolence, I am yours and you are the sun, my huntsman, my priest, we are not afraid anymore to look each other in the eye. When it’s time again to ask me, I tell you in perfect ritual rhyme that I worship that which pulsates within and from this obsession.
You tell me again you are pleased.
Hands and hearts of stone made flesh. You move your painted fingers along my scars: the sky births heavy snow falling on leaves; the taste of wine is a dance of holy disintegration, life again begins underneath.
I look up into a crystal constellation rejoicing, the freedom of the secrets of night on the searching tips of deviant tongues.
The turning of the slicing wind is moving her aching blood through trees; something still at the window, watching, is wicked.