Wednesday, February 16, 2011

I lit a thin green candle

cadmium orange

give me a glasgow smile
or the tie they wear in deep south america
its flirtation I like
with doom or with a human
in violence we trust like 
as we trust in the warble of the dove
my sexuality takes forms unseen
unheard of and beyond the imagination
what you see are the pin-pricks of lust
the impersonal light of smut

I don't give a shit

because in moonlight
in bed with the corruption of my organs
the room will smell like fauna
like the rich leather couches of Morocco
someone will grow some bruise
and in that mass of blood
the honesty of expression will show
not but a god could gander at it
or behold so much enthusiasm
these things make me feel

oh constellations of fertility
the sons of embryonic dreams
in one mythology you are murderers
in another you mend the weave of love
like some old mother's fingers that
pull and give and care for one another

god damn you, jesus
and god damn you ministers of hell
we will never do anything wrong
our skin is perfect
our faces are perfect
the way we make love
and kill
are perfect

the way we live is perfect

s. sparling

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