trumpet desideria

 
lay me down in a garden of thorns &
let your blue tears wash over me.

the long dusty trails & the nights of drifting from no sex to
affairs with the wrong lovers are etched on my face, a road
map of desolate intentions. I chased love & whiskey & sleep
& never got enough. my heart was embezzled & my eyes
were too dry for crying.

I tell myself that I hold her because she likes to be held. but
inside me, where I bury the past without mourning, I know
there is a better place for her. if I embrace her tightly, her
eyes closed to the pensive dawn, she’ll never find it.

she’s the poem I wrote before there was poetry, the sculpture
I carved out of loneliness, & found the agony of yearning
the first time I kissed her.  even if she runs away, she’ll
remember my name  –  it’s branded on her.

we travel the same back alleys in our hunt for criminal sex.
she needs a certain degree of violence, penance for being
that kind of girl. the wanton, the fallen, whom I take to
satisfy my own aberrance: her kind. when she’s lying in a
nefarious abstract of lipstick & black liquid sorrow,
languid in the sediments of tormented orgasm,
I’ve completed a pact with diablerie.

this is the passion that incarcerates us  –
a sobriquet of love, as if that were enough…


(Art: Simon Loach)