I’m a dark horse
Running on a dark race course
I’m a blue moon
Since I stepped from out of the womb
—George Harrison, from “Dark Horse” on the Dark Horse LP (Apple Records, 1974)
When I put my hands on your body on your flesh I feel the history of that body. Not just the beginning of its forming in that distant lake but all the way beyond its ending. I feel the warmth and texture and simultaneously I see the flesh unwrap from the layers of fat and disappear. I see the fat disappear from the muscle. I see the muscle disappearing from around the organs and detaching itself from the bones. I see the organ gradually fade into transparency leaving a gleaming skeleton gleaming like ivory that slowly revolves until it becomes dust. I am consumed in the sense of your weight the way your flesh occupies momentary space the fullness of it beneath my palms. I am amazed at how perfectly your body fits to the curve of my hands. If I could attach our blood vessels so we could become each other I would. If I could open your body and slip up inside your skin and look out your eyes and forever have my lips fused with yours I would. It makes me weep to feel the history of you of your flesh beneath my hands in a time of so much loss. It makes me weep to feel the movement of your flesh beneath my palms as you twist and turn over to one side to create a series of gestures to reach up around my neck to draw me nearer. All these movements will be lost in time like tears in the rain.
David Wojnarowicz, “When I put my hands on your body” 1990 (via frankielulu)
This is consolation: In my letters to you,
I will grow no older. Years from now,
if you unearth them,
you will meet me again,
younger than you thought I was
when you were young,
so young you might blush
if someone were to spy us walking hand-in-hand.
—Mark Brazaitis, from “Young and Old,” in The Other Language (ABZ Poetry Press, 2009)
I wish I wrote the way I thought
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
A lot more
Than I should
Elegy for the Last Orgasm
after Rainer Maria Rilke
How could she not cry out when you pressed her to your flesh? How could she not hear the sorrow that sings at the core of every man’s heart? Already she must have sensed the heat coursing beneath your skin. For every orgasm secretly wishes to be burned.
Slowly she mastered the art of holding onto the pain, letting the flames travel down to her fingertips as she blew on each tiny flicker until it grew, filling first the room, then reaching up through the rooftops, then the sky. It was only a matter of time before others saw her blaze. The world, have you noticed, offers so few visions? Maybe that’s why she became such an angel, an obsession, a never-ending dream.
But now, even you know the risks. How moments can be reduced to memory in a flash. How love turns to dust that rises like a thousand tiny planets into the glittering air. Not to mention, how to forget. And never look back. Now you simply relax, sip cinnamon tea, and survey each night as if it were a dark sail, gliding into the horizon.
You even look forward to endings as if they were blessings and your only relief. For you, Love, have mastered the art of eternal restraint. You now know: never to cling. Never to look back. For it is only the now that matters. Is it not? Such powers you have gained. You even know what can never cease. What troubles your existence. How sometimes only a lie can save you. How, if you were to glance at the sky, the meteors would fall as helplessly as rain.
Nin Andrews, from Plume
Sylvia Plath, from the verse play Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices (via apoetreflects)