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
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—
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,
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.