“You are my forbidden fruit,” he says, “I must bite.”
And with the supreme spirit of Dionysus lifting up her skirt,
She gives him his feast - unleashing the words of Wordsworth,
Igniting the essence of Kant, flooding the Raft of Medusa.
Four eyes meet, electric; four hands clutch, prized;
Four legs entwine, utterly - transcendence in the form of flesh.
“But we are not each other’s to have,” she whispers,
“You must return to her golden hair, and me to his.”
“No,” he says, “Stay. His flame is not of your fire.
And I’ve carved our initials into this apple. Eat.”
But with the careless whimsy of a child merely seeking sun,
With time’s panicked pace incomprehensible,
She simply flies away -
Leaving him to his mountains and the golden hair.
Days begin to collect in heaps like the fallen leaves of autumn,
Smothering everything, but his face.
His face trespasses into dreams; it transforms memory into poems,
Cooley becoming slippery ice under her every step.
She thinks over and over again, barrel rolling through the years,
Oh, Scarlett! Is Tara not burned to the ground? What have we done?
This madness must be unbound.
She begins pouring ink atop the snowcapped peaks - thawing white with blue.
“I am your Cleopatra,” she says.
“Together, our blood’s rhythm is a war cry;
Our flesh, the authority of an empire;
Our coupling, the anchor of deep, rich roots –
Fervent, fecund, formidable - like our fucking.
Take my hand,” she says, “Come.”
But she’d scattered too many words around,
Emptied her basket impatiently, like a careless flower girl who ignores the ceremony.
The locked door did not open with her extravagant bouquets.
Her waiting became searching for mid-night at noon.
He said nothing. No ink river rushed into her tributary of testimony. He simply sent a song - so subtle the tune was lost to the evening wind.
His soul, the color unknown, had become heavily guarded by a local proletariat,
And she was forced to capitulate, to join rebel forces overseas - seek silence, or death.
But the Fates would not let such a hollow hole be filled;
They used it as a lens for the lovelorn, to bring into focus the two Circles of Confusion.
And so the waning merely became waiting and waxed into planning; Planning became passion.
Across continents of skies, pulled from the deep valleys of time, The Fates demanded must in the name of lust.
“There shall be a splitting of atoms”, they said.
“Bring forth the light, break dawn on this longing and hunger and absence.”
And with that, with such depth of marrow in their bones, the two bodies finally appear,
Sitting next to each other on a cold balcony in the late
Four eyes tangle in the years of divide.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, but thinks, ‘Do I know this face?’
A bridge of flesh must be built. Of course.
They try lifting left hand to right, but the palms don’t fit.
The universe flips backwards and upside down –
Made dizzy by the brazen, harsh air of the Fates’ fool’s errand. Could it be?
No one smiles. Choices were made like his skin,
Now inked with history - as permanent as the published page.
“The muse did exist,” he says,
“But it was only a slipped legging and your broken stiletto heal.”
At the thought of if, the record player suddenly awakes,
Sloppy and then as fluid as April rain – suturing the air with something like memory.
“The Muses you say? Those erratic darlings?” she asks.
“No! It was The Fates all a long spinning our thread bare blanket of life.”
“Use shears,” he gravely answers, “Cut loose those intolerable Fates. Leave them to their futile journey through this epic poem of cataclysm.”
Breathless, eclipsed by a New Moon of ugly darkness,
She sits on the edge of the chair staring.
He does not press his body up to hers. His stomach is not pushed to her lips. He will not force his way between her thighs.
The tongues merely conduct coded casualties - untouched.
So she pulls her best coat tighter,
Synching it around a single self,
Around the corpse of a perfect dream.
There had been so many times with silks and scrapes,
Arching and aching and urging they’d fallen down together.
They had known of a brilliant kingdom, where love had a true definition And passion was a birthright.
But now pacified, burned and buried,
The power of this once fantastic intimacy had become vague courtesy,
Where they found unimpressive, mute demons in different sheets,
Selfishly gathered, but not for themselves.
dededos
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