Saturday, July 14, 2012

The Bull and The Flower

Hearing the hypnotic thrashing of the bull

the bull and the blood and the moon and the cat calling its insides twisted with the bite of the praying mantis

the desert yellow, textured and soft, a pigment none could ever catch

he said it was Venus up above
his voice and his warmth, his hand, our hands

and now I am waiting for blood

the silver bull waits, that waiting not as a meditation but as grass grows or trees root, a knowledge

and oh the dancing girls of Apis, how I see their plaited hair and sensuous limbs
and the flowers placed upon the glorious creature

this is the Egypt in my sex

the beatific boys
and the priestess cults

and I say 'I dont care, he gave me a poem'

he gave me a poem yes
not the kiss but that breath after the kiss
yes, that

and the blood came and the blood and the moon and the red, all one, a sonorous flower

remember the bull by the sea, not the white one who brought his urging upon that spellbound queen, but the one who heard your tempo, as I

you pushed

I opened

again a flower, flushed with hope and desire
in a rapid moment of life

and the desert sands and the oasis and the birds at dawn all bring me into and out of this
this gloriousness

he is sleeping now, his nostrils gently pacing his dreams, dreams of pride and freedom, of suppleness, his lithe soul, his uncontained will, virility and ownership


because those of us who hear him are owned by him
unleashed as he is within the soul

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