Science has gotten funny… today they did a new study on the analysis of kisses and what they mean. It’s the way the eyes are fixated and the way the world is moving out of reach from the lips, the way the planets pull down from the cosmos, altering our sense of time. That’s the way you kissed me, but what did it mean? It meant you could orbit earth or teleport to another realm, it meant that we were inhabiting the same star, and it didn’t matter how far, I’d still imagine the perfect kiss, even if we hadn’t shared it, because time becomes vastly altered just by the desire for our mouths to meet in speechless brilliance. This was a taste of what was to come between us, it was delicious and I wanted to savour it in silence, and to laugh at science, because they could conduct a million different studies, and never make sense of the intent of my tongue, or it’s warm, wet dance inside you, shameless in it’s fluency, and eager to create a new universe.
Category Archives: Stars
Too sober to fuck stars bright so they fade, fade in the night without gold.
Too close to want to hold if you see in me this black sky,
that makes wishes die.
” But I will turn my eyes from you
As women turn to put away
The jewels they have worn at night
And cannot wear in sober day.”
Softly, fully we bloom into these bodies
And boom and womb are atomic.
What can one say for the abrasion of our violent arrival into brighter worlds?
In a field at night I saw my mother gather stars, picking each like a red ripe cherry from the sky
And her smile is what captured me.
That was when I knew I wanted to be electricity in her veins.
I traveled from the world of the cosmic divine, made a steep decline down onto my fathers inarticulate tongue and sang through his ribs as the explosion of white travelers fought for their positions in the atmosphere of her body.
I wanted to be there to greet you first, but darkness drowned you away from my life like a wave and the thirst for strangers followed me like a sexual awakening when the sun burns your eyes and the man by your side asks if it was alright, but you can’t recall his name in the light of day, because they all say they love you, it’s a word used to open the sky, a word to be born by.
Her eyes are a dark cave where I gaze deeply at a thousand stars, traveling in progression through the centuries, a written documentary of our souls. On stone walls I carve out these symbols of affection and she interprets my love for her with searching fingers in the night, tracing those arcane lines into light.
We are each in the other seeking an answer to our own being before the sea rises and washes away our poems, etching our memories like fossils on stones, translating our dreams into beautiful beams that pass from the ash of that dusty distance to our present existence.
Seems like girlhood conditioned me to be that woman who hides in that place between dark & light, the place that casts shadows. It hurts to be admired. To have the same scars as others with the same particles of stars coursing through your veins. Maybe I was eight, but maybe I never existed. I was not yours by blood, but you found me as a girl hunted while night flooded in through the open balcony and you came & went and pretended not to see me naked, violated. That boy, just a budding man had taken me from behind, and all you did was walk away and lock the door on your daughter. I must have wanted it, wanted like the purple and blue left on me by you whenever I ran away. Little girls stray. I always did. But that was so small and inconsequential (like your manhood) and then you had the nerve to say you knew, you know why I was so stunted. Mother was the same, she would hand me away to the wolves. I remember being only four years old and hiding under her skirt, where I felt most safe. That was my first time going astray. I went on many adventures into those places between dark & light, places of non-existence. I would later be reaching for things not seen by others. I was sure I could touch them, make them real somehow, bring them into the light to display. I was in a trailer, riding out into the country, a girl and a wolf, alone together. I felt his fingers to be like spiders, that was the game; the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the little girl’s leg and into her panties to play, the sky went grey and I went with it. The rain fell and I squinted my eyes at the horses on the open prairies, behind the fence, tamed to be ridden into the distance of the forest, where we once ran free as children, without arachnophobic memories. The rain kept falling, it rained and rained. I was five years old and another budding boy took my hand and led me by a lake, forced himself in my mouth and told me to keep swallowing. That is when I first learned to swim, like a small mermaid, I would swim against the current of the world, unseen, under dark water, just below the surface of the light, in that place I came to recognize as my home. I cannot recall all the ones who gained entrance into my young world, so many trespassers disguised as those who loved me. I lost entire years to those night travels, and there was never a moment when I could reach the sunrise untouched or pure. I was a stained glass version of myself cut from crystal, fragile and breakable, a perfect conduit for the light to pass through, on it’s way to somewhere better. Not one of you could see the logic in my decisions. “Why would she, why would she, how could she?” One day my mother asked me in my twenties if I planned to die a drug addict, and I saw my future, hollowed out, creviced, and dark. I decided at last to emerge from that place, but the darkness followed me into the light, like a hungry wolf licking at my heels, and I laughed at you all, in your fickle facades of marriage and children and happy home lives. I clicked my red heels three times in succession and woke up in a wonderland of my own invention. This time it was a choice, I went willingly with those wolves into the darkest of woods to feed their hunger, quench their infinite, injured need for love. I took up the name not easily given, like a wild gypsy sun dancer and claimed that title willingly. One time my father said he never pictured me a thief, he imagined me as a call girl, something others stole or took with or without permission. Maybe he was always right and I just haven’t envisioned that truth yet. Maybe deep down that’s what they all want for us, to please them and make them feel wanted and important. How important are we, showered by eternal white starlight, yet constantly cloaked and veiled to our own inner beauty? Seems like my girlhood conditioned me to be that woman, and that became my name, in a foreign language, Russian for “woman of the wolves.” Or an Indian name given; my indoctrination into an endless world of night, where I am most at home. I learned to master pleasure. I can easily give it, but I never feel it, and pain is so ordinary to me. I laugh at those who feign these games of pleasure & pain, all those who play like children at being on that border, have never truly felt what it is. Let’s go through the motions together. I will take you where you can only dream of being and when you reach that paradise, you will see that I am the Queen. Queen of wolves & shadows. They pass through me easily, and I take them deep inside of me where there is no fear or hurt, to a place where you can master your own shadow. Watch how the wolf enters the girl. becomes her and her him. One could not exist without the other. Give me what you keep hidden from those who fear you most and I will make it my own. Oh what lovely hands you have, the better to unfold me with. Unfold me like a paper swan and write your name on my soul. I’m bad with names. I only remember eyes and limbs, and how skin gets mutilated by sharp claws as they tear you open. I don’t know what it is that gets so numb in me, I only know women make me come alive like a swan on the surface of a pond, gracefully floating beyond, an endless stream of pretty water-lilies and perfumed gardens. There is never a woman whose name I’ve forgotten. Unique & beautiful like flowers, orchid girl, rose lady, tulip child. They make all that is dull and ugly in this world worthwhile. Make me shine my violet femme, my constellation, my flock of doves. Nothing owns me, only you.
A voice never to be heard. (things absurd.) The giving up of moments into memories, the sacrifice of self into nothingness, like the self was nothing to begin with, and it wasn’t, it is and it is not dependent on mood. But a mood can create & destroy. What was that they told us? First the thought, then the mood, then the action. But what if I was without thought or feeling? What if I was all id, seething along on impulse, impervious to the outcome, recklessly burning the night alive like a dying star? What if that’s all we are? These cellular beams of nothing, creating self from thought & illusion. The play of existence is transitory, so we can opt to live or die, or merge into another self at random, according to our own will, that gets governed by the heart and guided by the soul, which is immortal. Then this body is a choice and so is yours but are we really free or is that also illusory? We carry our prisons like luggage or occupations, from one destination to the next, deep in our inner cores, where we fear to tread. Freedom is a state of mind they say, so I can be locked away and still fly, or I can roam forever and never feel alive. It doesn’t matter either way. I dreamt we had a long conversation. I dreamt I heard your voice. I dreamt you meant to tell me something. We had met for the first time in the flesh, and there was nothing to be said that couldn’t be expressed by our bodies, so you said hello with a long and fatal kiss and in that same breath I said goodbye to life and death, I was born in you, anew. Because real love makes us lose our vision and real love makes us see things as they are, in a way we were blind to before. All that pollutes us from the past transmutes into a white light of undying purity in which we create each other, rhythmically like planets, aligned to a divine order, that appears to us as chaos.
What cycle of the moon would bring us our doom; two fish washed ashore in a forest.
The tide pool offers us a view of birds, previously hidden, but for those moments we would jump above the surface of the water.
They build nests and create something numinous beyond all seeing.
If only we could grow wings.
If only we could find our way
free from this puddle before the sun rises and dries up our dreams.
“But where then shall we go and what will we behold?” Asked the one fish of the other.
When our sadness flows in streams we will drown in the river of our selves, sink deep into the roots of the trees and then branch out to the sky and swim among the stars.
Her hair is stained by the 56th nucleon of an Orion constellation, surrounding a planet that rains pure silver.
Curled into long locks by the graceful fingers of a Jupiterian Queen.
Her eyes are green, like emeralds plucked from the Nile in Egypt.
Her body was formed on an ancient land under the sea, somewhere long ago and far away from me.
Red tape, white tape, things to break and be bound by. Seal my heart away in a box, in storage where it stays, incapable of remaining any other place, but categorized under things to take out when unpacking, things to decorate this empty space.
There was a turning door that alternated between dark & light, among all the places she led me. I could not follow her in, could not let myself process the shadowy barrier I would never have the chance to cross.
Her mouth was gentle and breakable by invisible kisses, kisses stained black, white, dark, light & beautiful in their pain.
We cannot get beyond the dusty smell of death in all the old places we stay.
I see a flutter of butterflies carrying stars to the river, to drop them deep in the murky silence & the gush of waves.
Some day I will drown in stars.
Some day I’ll rise silver & moonstruck, to hold her in my arms and stay in a place where my heart is still and my body never defies me.
Can you catch death from an owl, or freedom from a butterfly?
Wisdom & transcendence.
I have walked along the palace walls and witnessed the loneliness of the queen; the things she has seen and been above, and the absence of true love in all the stars we wish upon. Saw princes turn into demons and princesses hide away in dark places, praying to false saviours in the sky.
I have rode trains near ancient remains and felt the sorrow of the broken stone goddesses, who are a testament to the war we wage against all that is different.
I sat with you one winter night and you held my arm tight, trying to catch my pulse. It froze like a piece of glass and lodged into my heart.
Midnight arrives and I skate down the river, to the edge of the city. I stare up at the lights in the sky and wonder if it matters that there’s life on other planets if it’s all the same as this.
When I was twenty I drank a bottle of vodka and disappeared. The truth appeared to be nothing but a blur on the horizon. When I woke up I was sober and nearing forty. I found I had missed nothing. Being awake or asleep, life still carries on in the same way with or without us. We have gravity to blame.
I decided to become an astronaut and float above the world, alone. Out here in the dark no one sees me. I hear the desperate pleas of the lost ones back on earth, crying for something, anything to take it all away. Some pray for little things; like jobs, children, and marriage. Some pray for bigger things; like freedom, truth and love. Not one of them sees how futile their efforts are. Not one of them cares for the things beyond.
In space you are weightless and mute. You can’t hear the sound of bombs going off in the name of love, because bombs don’t even matter and love is only a word. Nothing can touch you when you are free, not even gravity.
You told me you love me to the moon and then the moon shattered in three crescent pieces on my floor. (The crimson moon necklace made of clay, you bought me on the island that day.) Where will you love me to now that our moon is broken?
Ovid said that although all things are temporary, nothing perishes. Everything is flowing. It’s sink or swim.
I doubt this was an accident.
I meant to replace the picture I had hung in my kitchen that reads:” those who love passionately teach us how to live.” I was going to hang the calendar you sent me for this new year, the one about unlikely friendships in the animal kingdom, and then smash, down from the nail, like a fallen Christ.
Is there really a Hades? Can we take a boat there? What will Persephone say when she hears the news?
We may never see another spring.
What a tragedy.
And I walked about my small coffin of an apartment repeating “I broke our moon, I broke our moon.” Bury my heart at the Acropolis.