(6. mt. of virgins

 

i.

Thousands of miles laid beneath the trekking of feet modest of protection, and body malnourished given only to the careless thoughts to be sustained, the rest was lost in a love and burning desire,
so revealed in the spring when the ocean upon which she had blessed the name of her god
parted and dried its embraces from the knowledge of man; ambrosia had long fled,
and muteness took hold of their arrant mouths. And its mimicry became litany upon her features until the rosary of her hands were lackadaisical in their sounds, and her blood,vicious --

In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
(In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.)


ii.


Only a singular song was ever imparted over verdant fields she sprinkled with the seeds of poppy. The guided ways for the death, the soldiers, and the scores of beasts between forest and violence. She hides her modest face yet.
Only few broken murmurs imparts tongues foreign in their annunciation. Her eyes are gray, like death, they peer beyond the forceful juggernaut of war and merely blink. They are not empty, nor full, nor light, nor intelligent.
Sometimes dirty and sometimes they are girly. She is too old for these things and when those eyes are taken by surprise
they cannot be holy mother virgin eyes -- only the ways the wolves are when they are hungry.

They whine.

iii.

"a clockwork release. death is swift. the oranges bloom like prophets."

Shortly after she learns the meaning of fog and how quickly things disappear into the land; how things move as shadows, watching selectively. She watches how high fires can burn. How even the sun embraces small children into death among the lillies. She watches bibles burn with each page flickering and it flickers across her cheeks as breathing thing.
She never allows herself to move.
We say it is because she cannot hear, but her eyes are gray and they are still; they cannot recant the macabre --
they only be polite pallors.
Only the prophets speak. Among the black trees of death they gleam.
The bombs. She kissed. The feet, she cut. The children, she smacked.The guns, she slept.
The sun, she damned. The blood, she drank. Their tongues, she cursed and finally she had blessed of war
and wondered if the waterfalls shook and the mountains sunk into the earth would madness soon take ahold of their arrant mouths. And its mimicry became litany upon her breasts until the softness of her hands were ephemeral in their placement, and her sound, no longer virgin --

In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
(In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.)

(5. Adoles Speaks

February 12

Dear Isobel, 

     I hate the way  you are like liquid. Envelopes me in movements and drowns me to the sound of violin and children crying. And that, is significant to my own child, the one tucked underneath skin that lost its luster, and muscles suffering from dystrophy, and the lining of my organs that's been eaten away long ago, and even the fat that hangs there as discarded lullabies and memories, and parts of him I try to save.

     You hair like darkness but today is it the gold I always talk about and it is a halo of discontentment and destruction; you is a walking goddess finding death in every touch. And once upon a time, a sun. Unable to thrive in my darkness, the ones of my breasts, like odd French dancers smiling often, and the ones along my thighs never touched by the caress of a man.

     Only mine, you whisper on other nights I laid in your arms and cried about the only man I ever loved. He dug himself into my flesh, became a scar of living tissue. A sad-eyed boy kissed them and told me they were perfect. And you told me they were like crusted stardust. I said they were hideous because they meant I would always be his. 

     I told you to not find herself in the cavities of my stomach for it's so shrunken inside it's sticking to my spine. But you wouldn't listen and found yourself stepping round gravestones and the slummed yards and decayed buildings and hear the cries of hagel Hitler! and smiled when you said Jupiter was in orbit, just because you could.

     I never saw you again with that gentle smile but hands cold, in memory.  And I heard you as those lips for med the word god, and I was left standing asking: où est-il? in a muted voice with the sounds of thunder and lightning and death surrounding us. 

&

May 15

Dear Isobel,
          I am as untitled as my latest poems will be. Or as the existence of my love. I am sure you know these things by now; pointless dreams that come as heavy winged creatures with long mouths and sad eyes and those nights I stare at pink walls, for they desperately need a new coat, or wallpaper that won't peel when I pick at it.
          No matter the mundane things, the unmade bed, soft vocalizations of Billie Holidae; never mind the terrible sobs that might arise and shake the entire house at odd hours. My heart has decided to curl from it's dark tomb and sigh itself into existence and spill all confessions, unspoken, unnamed. I refuse to look at the words I write; for they are longing and envious for your voice, the flawless way the ugliest word becomes beautiful.
          After this storm passes, I will be silent. And not myself. But I will hope you call.
          I hope I still reach you from afar as, I am not long poetic, these winds are too harsh and smell of some failure, and do not deserve to caress you. Neither do these rains that spill as my soul.
          Yet, I yearn to be you as three shades of blue.

 

(4.Isobel

How tragic! How utterly sad that even after all the silence I have given to you, I still hear the annunciations of your voice. I still ache to have you hear my words and understand how much you mean to me. My dearest Isobel, if I could write like Beethoven as he spoken to his immortal beloved and spoke it so that it is as beautiful as it is pathetic, then I would! My dearest Isobel!if only how Napoleon might speak to Josephine and tell her right at that moment how no victor is sweeter than her, is there any need for me to tell you I would.

My sweetest, I do suffer. Beneath the most hideous circumstances.
I love wrong and when I do it is not enough. I love but when I do there is none that understand it so. Only you. I am so sorry to have abandoned you after so long. (I hate they have all the words of the world and I have so little):


&


Dear Isobel, April 30
It has been a while since I picked up the pen to write of anything other than the milkiness of the sky in April. I wanted to tell you of all the things that happened this week, but now, it is rather trivial, the things whispered from the mouths of children. I do, sometimes, write a letter my nameless, and I am not sure if you are that one or someone else; regardless you and I share an intimacy not dared shared by any other. But I laugh, for it is better not to cry over these dark comedies.
I can hear you while you whisper these words, as you ask all questions. I can answer somedays, and today, maybe.
It has taken me three days to construct this and even longer to gather the courage: I am not dead. I still breathe the same stale air through a recycled mouth; I write down the progression of the wall cracks which form names. They are two that can break my heart, thick black lines like abyss.
From fear, I cannot pronounce either.

(I spill I spill I spill)

(3. The Cigarette Lover

To be quite honest, I'm really at an edge that I'm shaking to descend from. A plateau of such epic proportions, the briefest mention of anything other than how do I come back down seems irrelevant. Recently, I've taken up smoking, pulling in the thin steady stream of nictoine's paled flesh; it is a nasty habit I thought I'd never pick up. People, in the
most interesting of circumstances, changes.
A woman whose name I recall to be the equivalent of some flower sat me down with her clear gray eyes and gentle smile and asked me to review who I was; so I offered her a
half-lit cigarette, a cup of cold tea, and bread too hard. She kindly accepted it but didn't touch it, which I think it was best because it held some unneeded friendly pretense.
She didn't feel obligated to eat and I didn't feel to obligated to talk.
"Well, did you know yourself when you were a child?"   
Her lips fluttered with some unreadable dialogue, and I say this because were both actors in a poorly constructed play. She wanted more stage and I wanted more gleaming fans
I could flick of and tell to go to hell in a not so subtle way.
Me - "No. Should I have?"

I drove for a few hours after that conversation and decided I had been away from home for too long.
My mother was ill and the room was cold; I for a moment feared she had passed away, and then I realized, I didn't really give a shit either way if she did.
So I sat by her bedside, lit a cigarette, and stared down at her motionless face, her nostrils barely moved like delicate tissue stirring directly beneath wind as it flits through grass. I left with smoke curling round her little malnourished face.
My stepfather, was a bastard anyway, and slept on the couch, clutching the pillow to his chest and maybe he did it for good reason. I could see right through his facade of being a man when in truth, I knew his eyes always watched the sway of my ass and the bounce of my tits on occasion. I knew he was just as good as my fucking father. He's in jail by the by.
And the brother, the most loveliest little boy if I ever knew one. I promised myself when I was old enough I would take him far away and tell him everything about them I learned the hard way. I loathe to leave him in their care but he'd always been their favorite anyway.
I entered my room, and sat for a while, staring at the bread basket serving as a letter holder. It was to the top and I counted 23. That's funny, I think, because I didn't know that many damn people who'd bother to write.

'You were the most amazing girl...'
      'How have things been?'
  'Well, me and her broke up'
        'Really wish you were here'
      'I'm engaged'
            'It isn't that you weren't enough,
  I just didn't feel complete with you'

(Sincerely,      You)
                    Funny thing is I didn't feel complete with me either.

I burn every single letter, the ones I didn't open, which is an estimate of 22. Then I drive to Joe's house, and no, that's not really his name, but what's the point of telling the truth as I haven't up til this point.  I always loved taking the corner of his house fast because at just the right speed, I feel out of control. I parked in my usual spot on the corner, because no wants me to be seen here, and slip in his window, and it's always unlocked because our expectations are the same.
He greets with a frigid half smile. I wave the fag. The sex, it's good. There are moments I like it.
Moments where the pressure of folding under waves of empty pleasure is too typical.

    "I do love you, you know,"
and I give a half mumble and the sad thing is, I think he thinks he means it.

All I wanted was someone to say you're not a smoker but the fire.
You're destructive in your divine right.
But I was the one to stare myself in the face saying it.
I just wanted someone to tell me to come outside and kinda give that awkward laugh.
To just sit with me in the  sleepless nights and talk to me about trivial things.
I have the prescription to do that. I dream in fits of black but I don't see faces anymore.
And then when I actually have to look in the mirror, it's blurry, so it feels great.
Because then, I can't see just really how absolutely mad I've become. 







(In the end, it's all lies and bullshit. If I was fag toting, I would be filling myself with all
kinds of smoke so I don't just fly away.)

(2. I, himalaya

• 
  you are wrong,
  i am not the sounds of heat light and pain
  but the waves and leaves and mute.
  
  you paint me violent and uncompromising even while I have silenced my wick
  and watched your lips snore into sleep, I am untouched by your hands,
  I am small simple speech when I am loving you,
  I am intangible monsoon when I am passionate,
  I am better feral when I am alone,
  and unfolding limbs like sex and ornamentation like floral and subversive
  in your calumnious nectar. I am ashamed into the depths of your syllables.
  
  I am not the sounds of heat weight and pain
  but the waves of leaves and mute, you are wrong
  when you no longer caress my flesh as your canvas or form words improperly.
  
  Inviolable. I now hum.