‘for it is the moon that begets love’s tragedies’
I’ve walked in the valley of storms, where the shadows are
most bleak, the bleakness most deep. stumbled along to
avoid the cracks in the road, & I’ve heard the tolling of the
bells; they toll for me.
on lonely nights, I imagine a woman in her peasant blouse &
barefoot. her beckoning arms reach for me, but when my hands
attempt to embrace her, they come away empty, because she is
merely a mirage cast in the rain.
the angels have laid down in sedimentary beds, & saints know
what it means to sin.
I make stories about a drifter, soldier of misfortune, who drinks
whiskey & smokes to see visions in the grayish billows. he
accuses his woman of doing vile things with other men. in his
craven, drunken rage, he beats her. & when she is bruised &
tearful, he carries her to bed, spreads her legs, & f*cks her.
these morbid tales, this is my art, by which I seduce the forlorn &
forsaken, to ease my loneliness. & if I say I love you, that is the
cruelest poem. poetry in a man who has none.
what can I offer a mistress? a heart that is distant. kisses that
sting. & hands that would beat you, to suffer with me in the
valley of storms.
my poems are whores – they’re shameless…
(Art: Francesca Woodman)