Eyes Open and Wants Exposed

We started in the mud,
after rekindling Beltane fires snuffed by everyday rain,
the Maypole still wet.

We invited flesh and spirit to have their way with us.

“This only comes once a year,” I said to me then.
But that me (all covered in mud for May Day,
eyes closed and opened wants) she forgot,
she forgot everything that didn’t come
with him in it.

Thoughts of him are all over me now, always…
his words on my hips, always, always
him…

in the evening, on the dining-room table… him.

When reason is smashed to pieces
and lust is
neurosis dominated by love… him,
that is all I see—

his mind…
in
me.

This year, if rain won’t caress my Beltane fires, I will
spill wine in the dirt to make a bed of mud. To have him
all over me (eyes open and wants exposed), that is all
I want to see—

in the evening, on the dining-room table… him,
always him, neurosis dominated by love… him,

his words…
his mind…
in me.

 

borrowed from Trancetral

 

expanded from this slighted mad-looking acrostic blackout poem
(you can read a bit more about the blackout itself here).

 

– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

 

Repressed Desires Grow Bitter on the Tongue

If you let them ink you to their liking, turn you into what they believe you should be, they will rip my heart out of your chest and watch us scream… Bare your teeth, my Love. Tell them the dark, dark, dark spot in your mind (the one normalcy can’t touch without dying or falling or changing for the better) belongs to me. Remind them that in ink, I am tenderness and terror.

You can lie to them. But between you and me, Love, and the wild wonders my flesh knows of your bones, masks will not stand true. I can still feel you (whispering old wants, weaving new stories) in me. Silence is not a natural environment for love or lust. I can’t delight in us, if you won’t talk to me—

scream your want into my skin, repressed desires grow bitter on the tongue.

the visual poetry

the wee notes…
– I borrowed a partial phrase from my favorite quote, out of The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield: “Silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them they grow pale, sicken and die. And then they haunt you.” Seriously, they do you… with chainsaws… and mad ravens.
– linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.