Otherwise, Anyway

In a lie, he found the truest words he’d ever heard.

Today I come as Dionysus. Naked, but for a single leathern strap, knotted hip-round, under giant flaming wings. Silver bones. Carrying as arrows down my face, bloods and palm-frond forms of fire: deep painted drags. Above: a headdress of horns and thorns and flowers and feathers. Shoulder-strapped: a taught and twisted bow, enormous and palmpolished. Strung vibrant by skinned sinews from a felled hellbound wintry wild boar. Hanging from my utility belt in clipped and roughsewn knots of raw twine: a flask and a tomahawk. My eyes gleam and my feet are cracked and ageless.

A hunter: I deem in miracles and cut the throats of tragedy’s beloved: the tyrants and soulsnatchers. I look at her. One hand smearing blood across my face, one wrapped in knotted muscles, sweat dripped, and quivering: heartbeat in the flesh. Eye two ‘I’s complicity: the night is a powder keg of purple: volcanic for a velvet bed.

My claws are sharp and my talons dig deep. Soil is transported from here to slightly over there. Prints: I’ve made my mark. My canine aspect gleams as milk teeth in the insincere sun. Poison drips from the corners of my lips: lavender snow. She licks a drops and falls falls falls into ecstatic convulsions. It’s something fails us.

Reinventing the sacred: all lines of parallax fold inward in transcending dance, the cancerous worm of the Logos: humiliates the body, sucks the dregs from drained souls: making space a caffeinated fire of desperate competition.

And in this twitching, sweating dream, my hand is a map of the stars, singing the forest footpaths fearless. Dreams alive as lightning lighting dark and desperate silhouettes outlined boldly in the clouds and all but forgotten: reforged in memory’s autonomous smith, renamed, reimagined, reiterated in defiance of origins. The only cup the future tips is each other. A shoulder ax at bay and a prayer rug on the ground. There is no god but...

Pick your lovers carefully, for in their hearts’ mortal muscles, you pour nothing short of God and God is near the most dangerous tincture known to man. Drunk on dreams in smoke rings and Arabesques. Somewhere scream the lost boys from halls beyond vines beyond asphalt strewn with upturned dumpsters, snow and blood. We smell incense and hear the gentle chimes of sword fights: them in wake now make love to their masters. Sea?

‘Nothing short of God’ but harden bricks drip molten when (and only when) in certain conflagration stokes a body’s heat to combusting. Melt God out molten into the Other’s heart. Look into my eyes. Hold nothing back. The quivering howl of submission, Islam, to the everpressing ache of...

Snakerings and venom. Towers and masts of myth in suggestion. Tis we are the stormies, the furies, the thing in and of itself, L—E, to share to melt to burn to fall to dream to hold each Other’s hand to step the gap to mind the spring to spring to summer’s swelter in incubation and banishments. In and out, in and out. Sweet Kala, my assassin, pilot light of bearable oblivion. Underneath my skin. Somewhere in my heart.

The perfect pace. Viscous, dripping, running whispers of sand caught ripe and riven of her whispered surrender: cosmographical. Greater than any stone on which you’ve ever stood. Whipped into a tremor, drunk on blood from broken hearts – a pomegranate – the swirling stimulus, sucked out as the boardroom bureaucrats crack and crumble concrete goblins locked lost and pus-filled in vault, ‘communities’ behind gates and walls.

They fear. We do not. They dream of colors that we paint our bodies for the dance. They hold some truths to be self-evident, while we are the selves that evince those truths.