||[31 Aug 2007|12:09pm]
I served first the whore
Of my house, who came
That night in the same dress,
(A gift no doubt,
As mine was). The black
Velvet crushed at our breasts,
Twin, when we stood in each other’s eyes
Talking shallow things, I could see
My face: the age etched in
Venomous wrinkles that penetrated
My thoughts with poison. You saw
A goddess in the pools of my look,
A goddess warrior, an heiress
Of love, and smiled. Young turk.
At dinner I served you first,
The compliment of my bread,
Eat and be merry
I said, "Eat and be married to him
For all I damn care."
I bared my breasts, I spat
And a sudden thousand aders
Seized from my scalp, and spat
With me a sea so roiling it killed us all,
It carried the dishes
Out the door, it gathered the roses
In the garden away, it crushed Christ
Against the abyss, and settled to silence.
After, all I could hear was silence,
And the sound of him coming
We will loose this season
Soon, the cold will come
Crushing the starlings from
The inadequate breast of the eaves,
These the inherited mansions of ice.
And their gardens below will ceed
The flowers to melancholy
Brown grasses. The cricket
Crystallized to the street lamp,
Will make a sad memory of summer parties
When we listened to them sing,
Making love in the open air.
Even now, the strain is dying, dulling
In the premature dusk.
Cunt, is a confrontation
Of nature and infection.
The monster there, in the dark
Crooks, curling it’s tail round
The rinds of rotten fruits and desolate
Skeletons of men has a face like Brooke Shields's
And smiles, perfect white pearls.
Cunt is a truth, is a translation,
Related across generations,
First from the holy
Hands of men, from God in the great mirage,
And so we do not question what.
We are Cunt, the daughters of frailty, the
heiresses of hysterical wombs and Tampax.
Oh sad little holocaust!
They sent our mothers, going back forever,
And us as young girl things, down
To salvation. We got pink lipstick
And our clits stitched, we got picture shows
Of generations stuck like pigs with apples in
On the gallows of the pit. We watched them burn
In a boiling sea of menarche, and were told
These are our children, and our blood burning.
And when it was done,
We were indoctrinated in repentance,
And excepted are aureole’s in silence,
Like so many Brooke Shields,
Smiling, perfect white pearls.
So many monsters.