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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………………………………………………………………..

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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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………………………………………………………………..

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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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………………………………………………………………..

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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