Locate the jagged fractal softness
of your body in mine, mine in yours,
atoms honed to silence by the blade
of our gaze. Be the same emptiness
I Am, but muskier. Not the absence
of desire, but a wanting with no I,
an ever-expanding erotic hologram,
copulating with myriad liquid likenesses.
We are ripples and fragments of fire,
frolicking on still dark water. The moon
is doing it, but even she is the reflection
of some other light. Love frees us
from the truth. Let's be dolphins,
green chimeras smiling, beat, beatific,
playful
in a sea of lies. Even the name
of God is a lie, poised in the parenthesis
of zero. Which is why we must be fearless
petals in a hurricane. You yet believe
in roots, in stems? Halfway through
this indecipherable life, this poem,
you yet believe there might be something
called its “meaning”? Are you sure
it's not some atavistic hieroglyph, the seal
on a temple door that no one can open
but a priestess with the face of a cobra,
black belly of a famished panther,
rune-veined dragonfly wings that,
like the poem itself, tell nothing, eyes
like broken vases spilling emeralds
into the beams of your shadow?
This is not literature, it's a seduction,
one thread in my ode to untruth,
this web of terror and beauty, the lies
that make the world possible.
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