Solstice

Let us bring out the fine cutlery
And feast like spring is just around the corner.
Do not speak to me of happiness and such fragile things.
Tell me tales of wine, and flesh, and of days when the dark goddesses
Poured forth their infinite mercies
By the way of flies and vermin.

Let us pour ourselves a goblet of music
And feast like spring is just around the corner.
Do not speak at all, baby girl, do not speak at all.
Do unto me like they did in Vienna, or perhaps in Benares;
Twisting, turning, bodies, highways
By the way of human hives.

Beastly Things

The mind seeks comfort of familiarty,
Then, pines for new things
And tries to resolve blur,
And then tries skew lines into blurbs.

The mind is a funny thing,
Suspended in body, around soul.
The heart, on the other hand,
Is brutal.

Feast

Divided between sense and nonsense- each takes its share
Mixed amounts of love and dissonance,
Comfort and despair.

I found this lovely little girl, who made art and music
And loved these strange men.
Sometimes shiny, sometimes pretty, sometimes wild.

Having parted ways with sense, and having lost her music
And her heart having uncoiled like a wyrm,
Travelling through body and soul,
Sometimes feeding,
She left.

Similar creatures find each other,
Like spiders sometimes build webs collaboratively.
But sometimes wyrms are just glad
To have flesh to feed on,
And darkness to keep themselves moist.