How long ago was man promised? never again. no not again. no death by water.
yet how many questions arise like yeast. like the perfect dead:
was the red sea really? does man rule the river? did she/he drown? was it natural causes? was it sorrow?
How many tears on your pillow. crocodile or real. water shed. brian jones drowned. face down. in a child’s pool of water. youth fountain.
Jim Morrison. our leather lamb. he feared the bathroom. he warned us. hyacinth house. how did he know. how did christ know no doubt about it. a marked man is always the first to know. he died in a bathtub. slumped over like Marat. the only clue was the red rash over his heart. someone said there were last words. water poured from his eyes. he was truly immaculate yet surprised. outside it was raining. storm cloudes. danger waters. the tub was overflowing. he looked up. then he cried out: "but you promised"
A cluster of glories erupted from his skull. filled with holy dread he opened his chest and removed a small oval hand mirror. ivory and crystal and perfectly wrought. he had intended to inspect his head but instead dwelt for several minutes on the elegant craftsmanship of the mirror. the ivory had a rich grain, veins and in the center a crack. he knelt and squinted so as to get a better look. in the crack there was a garden. it was so green that he fell down in laughter and rolled and rolled over the cool blades. the blood streamed and covered the amazing fields. the pale glories, accustomed to worship, reared their heads and let themselves be washed all traces of the man gone the children were let free to roam and gloat in the long fields of poppies.
yum yum the stars are out. I’ll never forget how you smelled that night. like cheddar cheese melting under florescent light. like a day-old rainbow fish. what a dish. gotta lick my lips. gotta dream I day-dream. thorazine brain cloud. rain rain comes coming down. All over her. there is is on the hill. pale as a poesy. getting soaking wet. hope her petticoats shrink. well little shepherd girl you’re gonna kingdom come. looking so clean. the guardian of every little lamb. well beep beep sheep I’m moving in I’m gonna peep in bo’s bodice. lay down darling don’t be so modest let me slip my hand in ohhh that’s soft that’s nice that’s not used up ohhh don’t cry. wet what’s wet? oh that. heh heh that’s just the rain, lambie pie. now don’t squirm let me put my rubber on. I’m a wolf in lambskin trojan. ohh yeah that’s hard that’s good. now don’t tighten up. open up be-bop, lift that little butt up. ummm open wider be-bop come on nothing can. stop me. now. ohhh ahhh isn’t that good. my melancholy be-bop. oh don’t cry. come on get up. lets dance in the grass. let’s cut a rug let’s jitterbug. roll those tiny white stockings down. bobby sock-o let’s flow come on this is a dance contest. under the stars. let’s alice in the grass. let’s swing betty boop hoop. let’s birdland. let’s stroll. let’s rock. let’s roll. let’s whalebone. let’s go let’s deodorize the night.
Oh Raphael. Guardian angel. In love and crime all things move in sevens. seven compartments of the heart. the seven elaborate temptations. seven devils cast from Mary Magdalene whore of Christ. the seven marvelous voyages of Sinbad. sin/bad. And the number seven branded forever on the forehead of Cain. The first inspired man. The father of desire and murder. But his was not the first ecstasy. Consider his mother.
Eve’s was the crime of curiosity. As the saying goes: it killed the pussy. One bad apple spoiled the whole shot. But be sure it was no apple. An apple looks like an ass. It’s fag’s fruit. It must have been a tomato. Or better yet. A mango. She bit. Must we blamer her. abuse her. poor sweet bitch. perhaps there’s more to the story. think of Satan as some stud. maybe her knees were open. satan snakes between them. they open wider snakes up her thighs rubs against her for a while more than the tree of knowledge was about to be eaten… she shudders her first shudder pleasure pleasure garden was she sorry are we ever girls was she a good lay god only knows
anna of the harbor anna full of grace wrestles the desire for the dwelling place of male against male where thieves gesticulate and wink handsome for the sailor lads with duffel bags stuffed with lace anna embroiders hopes for marvelous tattoo rumps and sinks in perfumed dressing gowns as blue-eyed beauties dance but men don’t come for anna of the harbor.
anna full of grace gazing from her favorite place by the window by the sea by the thieves diaryed streets where men wound and love and make frank gestures behind beaded curtains as beads of sweet drip and drip down like a rosary from unshaven pits sliding velvet arms holy ammonia waters rising like old loves rushing satin skirts and anna of the harbor with an automatic feminine gesture powders her dress swift and expert where her pantaloons part like a woman.
Willing absence (however unwilling) is the negation of love. To remember can be at times no more than a cold duty, for we remember only in the limited way that is bearable. We observe small rites, but we defend against that terrible memory that is stronger than will. We defend ourselves from the rooms, the scenes, the objects that make for hallucination, that make the senses start up and fasten upon a ghost. We desert those who desert us; we cannot afford to suffer; we must live how we can.