Monday, March 21, 2011

chameleon in the shadow of the night

the house of strange sleep

the old gypsy woman does a seance every night so that
she may feel the hands of ghosts caressing her thighs
the black fidelity of death keeps every widow wholesome
her heart loves but her heart falls to pieces over the mask of her husband
the widower knows no bride left with his wife's eyes or mouth
his teeth recoil to the back of his throat at the touch of another woman

old crows, sad crows, the madness of the tethered soul
anchored in the sand of consumption
meditating for ten years or ten hours or ten minutes
the emptiness is the same now matter how or what the revelation
not until the colours hold each other's arms
not until the blank wall wears a smirk of laughter
sensitivity goes pop pop pop, these are melodies before corruption
the emotional spectrum becomes like the glass eye of water
like the dog of iranian tantrums in golden salons full of dank smoke
statues stand in areola - stand in triumph at the center of the soul
wearing a face of fathers of mothers of sons and killers in the same smile
the same menace of captive loneliness

at night I cry out from my nude palace every name of the female
Judith, Sasha, Margarita, Genevieve, Tabitha - a list of dead and living
on a chosen day I will sing for one and of her I will scream my need
every hour I shout out for them all to come and stand beside my bed
I will be dressed in the palpable purple furs of psychedelia
incense will be burning and my eyes will be shut to the earth and sky

the paint of the skyline accelerates from limpid green to pink extermination
the torn fetus of a sun turns to son turns to the child unnatural
where have you come from and why on such patterned wings
wings that wear faces and show eyes that frighten and repulse
I've found you in a funeral of sound like the breaking of waves
nothing but the wind and the scents it carries are stalking the air
I've felt destinies vibrating on these breezes, smelt desires and sexuality
the creamy fuck of pale thighs and open palms and the mouth of a lizard
it is halloween in the streets outside my yard and the plastic children dance
covered in felt and barbed wire and the percussion of death's jaws
scene: to the opium dens of your best friends midnight basement
to his mother and father smoking upstairs in the living room
all along the walls stood we and watched the matt be used by glass pipes
eternities of smoke in circulation with the blood of lungs
tattooing victim on our eyelids to make us see and see and see
proximity makes the heart grow fonder and the vision blur
until material items cohere in the brain and become invisible
in this way we never understood why we hated ourselves in the mirror
and the mat gets covered in the jelly of bodies
and the mat steals our sex
this pillow is a limbless demon
a corpse of a cloud
the ceiling is multiplying
where will its offspring live? 

S. Sparling

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