Friday, January 19, 2007

A Moon Cut Like A Sickle

Freud and the Officious Fool

As a clown, I offered her a bowl of cherries,
not flat (like a mirror) or a painted smile portrayed.
She put on her glasses and perused what I’d given her.

What a laugh she gave - incisor, not inside her,
It would never be inside her.
The bowl’s glazed age, hard hairline and fractured,
made such a withered vessel, a rotten bough, petaless - but the fruit, ah!

She ate them all, all, sweet tempting Eve
as I watched salivating, keen and dog-eyed.

She ate them all, all and licked her lips,
savouring the saviour, and the juice on her fingertips.

She ate them all, all and sucked the flesh from the bones,then chewed the marrow and spat out the stones -they cracked at the bowl, bare and wet.

She ate them all, all, as I watched her
and hungered, a half handsome xylophone me.

She returned the bowl a skeletal wreck,
With a painted satiate smile,
Then dismissed me, clowned me, that Marie Celeste.
A jape, a jaded sweating mask am I,
She a liquid fairy, who cuts the grease-paint squeak:
And washed her hands of me.

No Fides she , the all,
Drunk from the grail so empty.

I will pass my hand through her,
And taste the space of her form,
the very atom of her being.
My hand for eons in her ions,
and grasp her frigid nucleus,
take the jolt, the essence of her Gaia,
and tear it out.
Leave her a negative, a nothing,
electric and dead;
Like a dog, this sentience I possess, is nothing.