Love Frees Us From The Truth

 

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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