Friday, December 6, 2013

that day

here in the last days
things are beautiful
we still know pain
but things are beautiful

pray that the end does not come on the Sabbath
because that day
i will be baking
sweet butter sugar smell
permeating heated household air
and cinnamon, and rum

and my lovers
will be making love
knowing each other's body
like i know the curves of the crucifix
the prayer in my mouth
the road to the city

she arches back
pushing closer
and i imagine her
as full
as the blue glass bowl
where red dye fruit
strong liquour
and dough
are coming together
into the bread of life

and my lovers
making love
will be coming together
and my children
frosting cookies
do not know
they have not taken the fruit
they do not know
the soundless sighs
the nails he digs into her skin
rendering red across her back
the spasm shaking of the earth
the labour pains of the world
the tight contractions of her around him

they do not know
all this will be washed away
long before they themselves
know lovers

but pray the end does not come
on the Sabbath.
that day,
i will be baking

Thursday, December 5, 2013


the bodies
of women who love men

and the bodies of those
who think they do not
bleed also
showing forth truth

whatever you think
of their bodies
their manners
their minds

you cannot fault the heart of man
for he was made first
and does not know better

and for your love,
you bleed
every wound of his
pure innocent heart
the bloody gash
of your body 

even corpses

i don't like to fuck in the winter.

you died, in october, once
and i died with you 
persephone going down into the dirt
her hands stained red, her lips
keening for the sour sweet burst
kissing stained stones
on a road paved with the marble smooth
rocks of all her good intentions

the world grows cold
turns away from the sun
shuns all the things of the sun
skin and heat and explosions
there are no fireworks here
not in december

i grow cold
wrap myself in burial shrouds
of sweater on sweater on sweater
turn away from the living
into your cold arms
like your still chest will shield me
from winter winds

it's the natural order
horned god dies in bloody sacrifice
girls are natural born mourners
we put on black veils more easily than smiles
and when the world turns cold
we turn to crying
to bitter prayers and the preparation
of all men's graves

you were only my excuse
but still
i die with you in october

only the Resurrected spring 
will bring either of us back
when all things turn again towards sun
and all things thaw,
even corpses