elizabeth and francis

The disembodied lady
Leaves her cell like a photo cut
We hear her shuffles and her breathings yet…
It seems as though we only really know
the ones we’ve never met.

On Thursday she came a-wandering

Moved her into the en-suite guest room
at the back of my mind
I did
That very afternoon
Along with her relatives,
her lovers
in their red October sunglasses
And her Jeff Lynne music
as though we’d lost the bet of mortal enemies.

Waking up inside the dark mirror mirror on the wall

Beside this Elizabeth this flaming miss
this harridan this Lilith
This deliverer of the slur
this Lamia this blur
This hairy critic lairy cynic
This abject lucky bag of wet memories
This variegated platonic induction
This bird in the hide-away,
this hogstoord on the bridleway
This foul miasma pervading my arteries
Like some Raquel Welsh with a ray gun of candy floss
Aiming to shoot from the lip first
and then ask questions from behind
To zap and mutilate the equilibrium and serenity
Of my teeny pterodactylish little mind
Maybe I should wax her
Enshrine her as it were
In that bridled hogstoord.

Why should I embrace this tart in the fog

Why should I face this wart in the bog
Why should I pray for my enemy to be happy
To be happy, joyous and free?
Why should I nurture the spot on my face?
After eating Satan’s dayglow pudding
It’s gotta be my fault she’s there in the first place.

What is eet! This woman inside, whose form I can’t abide?

This bawd this hummer this itchy desire
Discord this lying dam ditch inner sister
This anima mother this one from another
This painting of fire this paradoxical figure
Floating over Mexico with good news and a tape measure.

She is the bee

With legs made of pollen
She is the mine
The wounded and fallen
She is thy meaning
Her words made of perfume
She is free dreaming
The Queen in my catacomb.                                                                        

04/11/2008