October 12, 2014 § Leave a comment

The Doctor says it will wait
for stress, or a weakened immune system…

I say it does not wait, this Plague of Whores;
it whispers leprously in my ear,
trickling with laughter at this shy body…

This Plague of Whores reminds me that you really didn’t know
that only pleasure was sought (like so many other times)
and so, in this River of Chance, I now know the Song of Whores

This Song of Whores chimes in chorus with the fluid of my spine
rippling like the water of some ancient bathhouse
pale bodies draped in linen, cuffed in gold,
hair braided with oils.

This Song of Whores tells me of places where there is no shyness
where the bold understand, where there is no Shirking Violet…
It tells me of Dahlias and Lilies, petals opening, nectar dripping. . .
and the flurry of suitors eager to pollinate.

This Song of Whores tells me of dark alleyways, backrooms, and urinals.
It tells me of bruised knees and wrists,
lips swollen from the bite and the acquiesce.
Laughable, it tells me, that this body knows so much
and knows so little

How do I face down my Desire
when I’ve painted myself
into this beautiful
little corner


They say the fungus that grows beneath the forest floor
joins the neurons of each tree root
collectively gathering each branch into one.
And so the knowledge of a breeze,
the resting breast of an owl,
the sound of newborn squirrels,
travels to the other edge of the forest.

This ancestral song of whores has hidden beneath the skirts
lurked beneath the skin, lived in the spine of a million desires. . .
Jumped to the next body, collecting the memories
and the knowledge of the rut, of the passion, of the rape.

Come, Psyche, Leda, Europa. . .
your Gods have left you here with me.
Thighs parted and dripping, saffron on your lips…
The conjecture of your consent forever immortalized.
Tell me, what other lovers came to beg at your feet?

Perhaps I shall grow cold with this.
No more room for romantic speculations. . .
Perhaps I shall cloak my body in shining steel
with only my burning hand as an offering.

Perhaps the laughter in my spine
shall fade to a guttural snicker
as I take apart each tender thought
I ever nourished of love, and affection,
and desire…

No more of this pining sweetness.
The folds between my legs closed.
No Dahlia here, no nectar,
only the grunt of the Stag.

(laughter again)

Herein will be my curse and now my mark:
I wanted to love
I wanted skin next to mine
I wanted to trust and put all of this
into the hands of someone else
because, frankly,

it was just too much for me.

So now, here you are.
Please, by all means, make yourself comfortable
in my discomfort.
Are you the kind of guest
that comes in with muddy shoes
resting on the coffee table?

I cannot believe that your kiss
is all that you would tell.
So, I’m listening.

Inoculated. . .

In the throes of your fever, in the throes of my shame,
as you dance through the branches of my nerves,
tell me.

Yours is not the language of breezes and owls;
Tell me of the others you have touched.
Tell me the knowledge of a virus
that has lived for thousands of years…


Where Am I?

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