© Sauce*Box, Fall 1996.
All rights revert to author.
Drifting Apart
by Padma Jared Thornlyre
I write with wooden
Cock the green word-
I am the cloven hoof.
I am on your cliff
By bloody nails,
My moon-from the ivory
Forest on the slopes
Of yonder mountain
Seeds soar,
Each in wet
Dream. Sky's
Chill rush quaffs
Clover and foam, thistles
Writhe an entire bridge,
A crow commands a dove
Into the serpent's eye.
Scarlet-soaked winds
Siphon blood from a virgin's
Mouth, shed roses
Which yank me like hooks
To the parting of waves,
Your tight caress,
Your cave of bones
And wavering light.
I splash in your magenta,
A blot against rainbows
Rippling black.
I drink your chilling foam.
Your palms fade, cupped,
To scaled thighs-
I churn against the darkness.
I am the goat
Your own tongue craves.
I would plow your bloody
Waters, but words unfold
From your labia, converge
On your tongue's red
Mound like luminous fish.
Their flames must not consume me!
Mine are the horns
Of lightning born!
Yet my bones slither
Through skittering eddies;
My heart strolls
Across wave-crests;
My balls bob
And freeze into foam.
I am strewn to a permanent
Grave. Your rigid breasts,
Buoys, consign my last
Fragments to the current.
You use cocks, wear them
Wrapped like charms
Around your wrists.
The moon's maw crunches
The forest. Rivers of blood.
Words collapse.
Drifting apart,
While a galaxy spins
Between us, we
Are spoken.
And we are not,
As per Mr. Lawrence,
Animals driven by ritual
Instinct, but human
Beings driving ourselves
Into a vast Uncertain.
* * * * *
Your critique of this work is appreciated.
Please e-mail the author.