October
I. The Demon
i must away for break of dawn has come
wings are sprouting from my scapulae
my mouth becomes a beak; i thought
i was a demon, not a bird
there are no birds in hell:
the ground festers, the trees
their branches all weighed down by ropes,
and the malebranche are avid hunters
or so i thought: not feeling, my God
turned me, into, a Dante: i have
been in hell for so long now,
i may as well be dead: my body as decayed
as all of theirs, as corrupt, that now
like maggots even feathers grow
from earth like flowers
suicides reaching out to sky
II. The Ninth Circle
sweet suckle, sin like a whoresmouth
Satan's satisfied face reflected on
the screen, the mirror, the showerhead
steam of the morning shower, on the mirror
written, into the exhausted wrist
stitched: hunger
or regret -- Satan
suckling on thinning hairs, my fellow traitors
hanging over ice, two by the threads,
one by the throbbing head -- sweet
suckle of the grave, you have the pleasure
of life and breath, of fire and motion, while the rest
lie deeper and deeper in, without even room
to throb, to choke, to drown, the shower's
pool of semen chilled by the morning
madness into a mirror
III. The Bedroom
only in your presence can I become
a woman, only in your presence
am i considered as impotent
as i truly am, only
in your presence
can the silence
sound like voices,
drumtaps, and the walls
distorting, giving way
to mirrors, doors, though in no way
concrete or able to be drawn, the way
a patient lies all day in bed, the way
you turn your head towards the door and say
"you are the word, I am the word made flesh --
to be with you is to be impotent,
and I have a mission to fulfill"
I. The Demon
i must away for break of dawn has come
wings are sprouting from my scapulae
my mouth becomes a beak; i thought
i was a demon, not a bird
there are no birds in hell:
the ground festers, the trees
their branches all weighed down by ropes,
and the malebranche are avid hunters
or so i thought: not feeling, my God
turned me, into, a Dante: i have
been in hell for so long now,
i may as well be dead: my body as decayed
as all of theirs, as corrupt, that now
like maggots even feathers grow
from earth like flowers
suicides reaching out to sky
II. The Ninth Circle
sweet suckle, sin like a whoresmouth
Satan's satisfied face reflected on
the screen, the mirror, the showerhead
steam of the morning shower, on the mirror
written, into the exhausted wrist
stitched: hunger
or regret -- Satan
suckling on thinning hairs, my fellow traitors
hanging over ice, two by the threads,
one by the throbbing head -- sweet
suckle of the grave, you have the pleasure
of life and breath, of fire and motion, while the rest
lie deeper and deeper in, without even room
to throb, to choke, to drown, the shower's
pool of semen chilled by the morning
madness into a mirror
III. The Bedroom
only in your presence can I become
a woman, only in your presence
am i considered as impotent
as i truly am, only
in your presence
can the silence
sound like voices,
drumtaps, and the walls
distorting, giving way
to mirrors, doors, though in no way
concrete or able to be drawn, the way
a patient lies all day in bed, the way
you turn your head towards the door and say
"you are the word, I am the word made flesh --
to be with you is to be impotent,
and I have a mission to fulfill"