all the ancient classic fairy tales
have always been scary and dark.
—— Helena Bonham Carter
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Truth like faith crawls in on disillusioned
claw-stubs. Talk of either makes me woozy;
the way marsh gas, fluid swamp rot, poisoned
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bog air, causes me to wretch. Frequently
though there is a perverse pleasure, finding
myself neck deep in the muck, cautiously
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navigating each step, while the singing
of unseen sirens tries to dissuade me
from turning back. I like that ill pleasure,
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and it is a very ill thing to do:
debate the things we can’t prove or disprove.
Floating nearby, smelling citrus and camphor
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in the air. Listening to those all those who
talk while the trees gently laugh, gently move.
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The time has come to tell tales of the dead.
Strictly speaking, terror is rational
fear, fear of what is known; horror, instead,
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is fear of all that is irrational.
The night versus the day. Dionysus
versus Apollo. But the erotic
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world has no such separations; lewdness
is just what we make it. I know the sick
art to make you flood; the soft seduction.
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A slick, sultry mouthful; these are queer tastes.
Do you care? Day or night? Crude or sublime?
Rational? Irrational? Moon or sun?
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Living or dead? When your dam bursts
I will drown, going down for the third time.
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From here all the tree trunks are blackly white
against cool-copper background. These lines thrust
clear and erect into coming twilight.
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How did Freud ever pass through such forests?
They’re all so palpable … phallic. For me,
walking among the oaks intoxicates.
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Not all lovers are forest gods, beasties,
freaks; but they should be. Sap runs, animates
flesh, dew and clay. “I stripped off my sarong,
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ran all mad-blood through the dappled down grass.
Rude horn of Pan. Gripping you with both hands
until you splattered, rose-lily, along
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my chin, my palms, my hair, across my ass,”
whispered the demon of the cropped marshlands.
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How much cold can you abide? If you kissed
me now you’d hear how the wind mews and talks
to you. Across the tundra of this tryst
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you called me, like the warmth of a snow fox
in the endless night. I come from the west,
dreaming about blackberry juice; roughly
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watching it trickle down your chin. Tongues pressed
tip to tip, although warm flesh on icy
metal never forgives. Little candle,
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moppet, June spark, I would lick the hoarfrost
from your breasts, if I could; I think you’d just
sputter, though, warmth being such a fragile
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play thing. How far will you go, my star-crossed
flame? The winter dark is my name for lust.
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a piece of moonlight
tongued like in a fairy tale
Cinderella nasty
memories of my ghost sista 