Between a River and an Ocean

Between a River and an Ocean. 

The gosling gawks, the seagull sulks,
and my hair is sandy sprayed.
My feet are cut,
my fingers too,
and my body's salted skin.
Shards of seaglass adorn my crown,
it's my own, made from what I've found,
in dunes, holes, and otherwise in the ground, see,
these pretty things are living, cause,
in the sand,
time doesn't turn, the suns don't burn at all,
and purified by rock,
the sparks of jewel remain throughout,
x-marked, maybe not,
but they exist and they persist past all the years
in the ocean's salty spears. 
The torch ignites up in the sky,
and all around people die like flies,
fall from their perches,
but me I'll never fail,
I'll never fall,
cause in the beach's sand I burrow and ignoring the sudden sorrow of my race,
I am alive, and I am well,
a secret kept in the folds,
immortalized,
and though in Heaven and in Hell, my fellows are,
I find my home,
not in the cove, not in the grove,
nor in the valley or the wood,
but in the dune and in the pit,
in the sand, is where it is, my heart,
my mind,
my semblance mummified, unmodified by life.
But, when my epitaph was writ in sand,
the wind always blew it away
by the midnight hour of the day.
Now even though my bod sometime reposes
none know I linger in the seaside,
for the waves keep knocking down my name
whene'er the tides come to claim the shore,
and any travelers passing by
will scan right through me to where the letters were,
and I, unnamed, become unseen,
and so obscene, a nameless man,
I am forgotten. 
I'll pay that price to live.  

El Greco, Saint Francis Kneeling In Meditation

The Martyr

The Martyr

I bled into the pigment,

my bones crushed to color.

Red is the staple.  Click. 

My body is dispatched ,

shed like a suit,
and soul thrown aside.

For some artist, I have died,
for his soul
and his body.
His spirit's free, immortally, substantially,
within his work.
at least as long as I am trapped,
trapped inside the paint.

There is a secret amongst the painted,
a secret of release,
we can break through our cage,
but despite what I know,
I will not break out of the ink.
I will not trade my spirit's life for his spirit's death. 
 

Salome the Baptist

Salome the Baptist

Middle finger C shaped,

pointer pointing out,

pinky retreats,

thumb curled, wrist twitching,

forearm writhing in a circle,

up, her elbow pulls; down, my shoulders push,

sweat in my scars,

dry blood, my skin and blush,

broken feet, limply soft,

the moon,

pale light lining my nose,

the sun so far away,

the moon,

white light lining my cheeks,

the eyes smoke,

the cage is free,

rust away,

the time

slowly dies. 

Come with me,

outline my eyes,

come with me,

outline my lips,

seven times,

the veiling skin sheds,
unnatural in the nude,

maneuvering

the court.

To fix, I break

to bathe, I dirty,

to pray, I sin. 

Pick at me. 

Plunge, rise,

fall again,

bless you, my king, bless you, my king’s king,

bless you, my queen, bless you my naked crow.

(Aubrey Beardsley, From Oscar Wild's Salome)

Felicien Rops, The Temptation of Saint Anthony

The Gardener

The Gardener

Old oranges beneath my feet, pressed,

fermentation, sweet and thick,

stained up my legs,

I drink the wine.

In my happiness,

I walk up to the house,

and on the steps I fall, caught  in a storm,

unsteady in my legs,

a gust thrusts my bod about,

unsteady in my feet.

Orange trees surround, surround,

eye to eye,

crowns upon the green,

branching out, I grab the air,

catch a grasp of leaves.

Wet leaves stick to my skin,

sweat through my skin. 

Imprinted so, I am marked,

a blossom in my mouth,

praising the trees, praising the seed,

that pours through my lips. 

Lilies in the windowsill and grapevines on the vane,

thorn bush catch me in my prance,

take chances with my life, I fall onto the fence,

cut through,

I remain gargoyled stiff,

a dusty ornament married to the vines.  

In my session I am juiced,

made empty of my joy,

and I look up:

there's orange trees.  

El Greco, St Dominic in Prayer

Gustave Moreau, Jacob et l'Ange

Gustave Moreau, The Martyred Saint Sebastian

Eve, On Adam

 

Eve, On Adam

The form is holy,

Shaped in sacred ecstasy,

Sculpted from hallowed clay,

And I fear, if I touch his shape,

I will pollute his earth,

Or in turn, he will ruin me.

Perhaps, I’d fill his skies with factory smoke,

His river with toxic slime,

Burn his crops,

Deforest his lands,

Leave him to die. 

Would I make him a lesser man, more of a thing?

Make him bleed…

Who am I to touch, and

Who am I not to?

My purpose is to populate,

But in so doing, I pollute,

Unhallow this anointed hearth,

Profane this consecrated earth.

Blood is my calling, and God is my chain,

And though I’m prone to fall, I am held back,

And yet…

Is one touch strong enough to ruin us?

Can one touch truly kill?

My palms are soft, my fingers fragile…lethal?

Is it the way I walk, naturally, without pomp, that makes me tempt to sin?

Is it the way I blink crystals from my eyes

That makes him fall to his knees?

Is it my sharpened ankles; is it my wormy hair?

And him…

Is it the tongue poking through lips, spittle at the side?

Is it his leer, his shrug, his armpit sweat, his veiny neck, his crooked manliness?

His reddened eyes, his horseshoe legs, his hazardous desires?

Is it his stink that makes me lose control or how he scowls throughout the day?

Nothing of his should appeal…nothing about him, and yet…

Clay is no foundation, we’re cracked all over!

Look at me.  Look at him!

So weak,

So pathetic that fleshy snakes can make us lose our minds,

Make us plunge into the deep,

Make us scour our souls of their purity. 

Unnatural, we are served to be devoured with a sign reading: don’t!

Come close to me;

Let’s reevaluate. 

How rancid would I taste inside your mouth?

Would my tongue corrupt your spit so that your drool could debase the ground?

Closer.

Would this prick have wicked thoughts,

Become a tool of malfeasance, only if I touch? 

Honestly? 

Beneath this barren tree of knowledge, answerless, alone,

We must be clear:

Is communion vile?  Yes.

Is it abhorrent?  Yes.

The answers are made clear.

So then…

When night clouds shuffle in the air and stars spin across,

When heat replaces cold,

What is it that we feel? 

Is it the flame of hell?

Or the warmth of God?

With one touch, one innocent, lusty touch,

Will I ruin you?

And does it really matter?

You’ll fuck me anyways. 

Letters

 

Letters

Spoke the sphinx, we’ll die tonight,

and from the sun she fled,

and with my eyes, bewildered,

I glared into the heat. 

Deeply I felt a steaming wet,

seething in my sweat, determined so to write,

I nipped the paper with my quill,

and wrote a love letter to Thoughth:

From the stars,

numerically designed, I counted him,

numerically divine, my brother,

but when he died,

by tasting war, I saw,

my mother,

wail through the night.

And so she struck herself

ten blows till dead,

unable to persist,

and by some god’s insist,

she fled,

fled into the crypt.

I slept, by rosy waterfalls,

white wine and red

did spill,

sweet tasting in the cleanest streams,

so drunk

I stumbled in the pond

and found the abacchus.

My name did I reinvent,

a title mongst the known,

as writer, thinker, speaker too,

thrice great was I reborn.

But it was not I that taught me sight,

the wise words,

or the names,

For it was you,

you who wove me in the night,

graphically in space,

made my brain symmetrically designed,

inclined to revel in thought. 

And as I grew, I knew I was in love,

with you,

god of the feather quill,

the compass and the chart.

Though crashing spheres may thrash my world,

and shred me to a pulp,

for one kiss,

one little kiss,

I’d give to you all my heart. 

And then before my window flew, the Ibis bird,

who crashing in, pecked my skin,

pulled threads out of my shirt

and tore my notes to shreds. 

Standing barechest with a spear,

a king beneath my feet,

the sphinx returned, paw on my breast, licking my cheek.  

Knowledge is my gift, she said

and bit me on the neck,

and blood spewing, I pushed her off,

and struck the lady dead. 

Blind as a Theban king,

I stumbled through the halls,

inhaling the remains. 

Witness, Alexandria,

so consumed by Thoth,

your heart’s engulfed in flames!

Saints

 

Saints. 

Praise, he said, the one above,

and I did praise the one below,

and share what you have with all, he asked,

and I shared none at all.

And he flew to the stars, so smiling,

and I laid back in amaranths,

and rosy was my tinged skin, and rosy were his lips.

Spouting a holy vitriol,

as I heathen lay,

picking at my sins,

he melted my skin away. 

And when I praised the muse, he slapped my cheek and said,

I am the muse,

and when I praised the universe, he slapped my lips and said,

I am the universe,

and when I praised myself, he slapped my eyes and said,

I am yourself.

And I fled from body, did flood through him,

and rivers split and rivers flow,

though separate they share the name,

and dripping from his lips, his eyes,

we, so unlike, were the same.

I found him tied to a pole, and speared so through his chest,

and I held my hand upon his head,

and hymns through my lips sung,

for when alive it was to his heathen wits,

I did confess,

from his naked touch,

I took communion,

and from his pagan blood,

there poured a wine so sweet.

It singed the weeds around his feet,

and I untied him from his rest,

and sung through his battered ears,

a lullaby of psalms.

And burning through his wounds,

I found myself in love,

but in my duty dug a hole, unholy ground,

and buried him profanely by

the hazel and the yew.

The martyr was to a tree

pinned with a dagger,

pierced through his neck.

He could not speak no holy words;

he could not sing a hymn.

And when I tried to pull him down, he grabbed my hand and shook.

No.  He gushed.  Never.  He sighed.

Leave me. He poured.  Away.  He died,

and his feet hung limp,

black soled,

above the muddy ground. 

Time had passed,

and hazelnuts grew ever great

with victuals from skin

and yewberries so luscious plump

when drunk they from his blood.

The wind weighed thick, the vulture picked,

the crows cawed through the night,

the watermills poured round and round,

washing the whole wide world. 

A wisp came to his lips

and quickly turned them blue,

the sky broke out a flood,

the river doubled up,

the waters crashed against the tree.

Heavily, he fell,

face to the ground, unclothed,

and branches fell beside him, crisscrossed,

two sticks a common shape.

The Purpose of the Blog

This is a collection of  poetry I'm writing focused on religious conviction vs. doubt, the supernatural vs. the symbolic, wonder/lust vs. true/physical love, power vs. helplessness, and the over all ideas of sainthood, martyrdom, sexuality, homoeroticism, gender, Symbolism (the movement), and spirituality.