june gloom 2009

last june's june gloom excerpts:

(some of this repeats in my unnamable prose poem book.  thinking of text as kabbalah and signage, and telling vik, i write things i want to read . . . of saturn . . .)

A kiss a double kiss, a tickle, a tender moment, waiting end of june. End of june and better than any since april, and may a holocaust of my love, and june a permutation, and the many loves and filaments of our desire, conduits, and promises. A kiss like puppies on the lips, and relief. And the extreme beauty in his eyes when he spoke of her . . . sickness suffering, such blind happiness to want for his love, and hear him wanting for mine. And that's why we have such a good connection, it was said. And the reincarnation of a prototype, and the sick hunger I feel, and the joy that stops me in my tracks, laughter, demise, anguish. Just as all love is lost, then it appears, and I felt like a sister at his wedding, losing him forever, loving him, more clearly than ever.

Sick with my own ruses, sick with my elaborate lies, sick with happiness for them, and the warmth of her love, and sick for the piddling caress he allows all his dainty devotees, sick for polyamour.

Better now than the old way when I sat betwixt my dreams of death and dying. Better now that the trucks topple saved a chance of reunion. Better now I appreciate keenly another glimpse of survival. Better we save the best for last. I would be the other at the end of the dumb terminal. I would wait on the edge of decades for the dissolution of their days. I would wait for the geriatric numbskull kiss, and crochet around the symposia, petered out, by all the wrong loves. Lost into the daylight, blinded by memory, blinded.

loveless marriage.

terrified of life force

ashamed at my solitude, apologetic

full of words like autistic, agoraphobic.

Terrified of love.

Orion, instruments of other cultures

full of something unexpressed, languages symphonies, hungers, loves.

back at reading beckett.

Truly a circle.

I waited days . . . So much for my love, which leaves me splayed on the concrete, or hurling my food, or dreaming of the blade I could gash my neck on. My love which deletes all, which gave me bright mornings. The love I let into my mind like a petty addiction, junk food to keep my soul alive, and the complexity of polyamour meaning, that i'm still coming down  

...

Les enfants terribles, and I must find ways to persist here, as joys run high now. To stay high, and find the secret picture of a lost lover, when hope finally left, and the soulessness of it is antieros, despite the heroin high of him, before he departed, the new brook.

And my love as delicious as wicked cakes like a towering gingerbread house, or wedding cake, every bit so sweet looking, never so beautiful before.

I should tell him, maybe he would like to hear that,

that every time I see him he is more beautiful, and this is more than a renewal of life-force.

I'm hungry and sink into my bed like the primordial slime I am and fuse my soul across miles, and live in suspended disbelief, as I hope for nothing, and feel so contented, satisfied by our platonic affair, physical exstasis so keen.

As for his secret, I would say, there is no secret, there is no matter to it, I would do anything and nothing for you, be anything or nothing, whatever you wanted, bits, or nothing, I am so happy all the same, sick with my desire.

Crawling around his ghost like vines.

And the flickering show of his image before my eyes these months seems not so sad anymore, as he was clearly so dear after all, and I could give him my picture book with poems, and he might not mind, as they are antiques now of another era.