Great Sex In A Bower Of Razorwire
Great sex in a bower of razorwire
and every kiss the splash
of an electrical rose
that just fell into the jacuzzi
as if it were committing suicide.
I remember you like the proof
of some mathematical theorem
I learned in school.
You were certain proof
I was a fool.
Foolproof then you said
but by then I was so screwed up
feeling like the Antichrist of Zen
I just wanted to be
as simple and lucid
as a horned skull that had fallen
like a chunk of the moon
into an unnamed desert
and let the stars crawl in and out of my eyes
salvaging whatever insights they could.
But you were the dangerous neighbourhood
I fell into instead
like a lost traveller's cheque
like a mini blackhole in my brain
like a pebble into a wishing well
that taught me like a dead echo
you can't draw water from a snakepit
even when you lower
the silver bucket of the moon
like your heart into a troubled sea.
I tried to write your mystery in comets
over the old cave paintings
of the constellations
that stuttered across the sky
like the text of an ancient windstorm
you couldn't get out of your eye,
but you mistook them
for the writing on the wall
and the fear you nursed
like your own assassin
broke them like a code of candles
in the shattered mirror of your seeing.
Everything I wrote after that
was either a lighthouse or a searchlight
looking for you among the wrecks.
I remember stepping out of the men's once
and seeing you across the bar
when you didn't know I was looking.
You were that nudged-over, foam-nosed
beer-drinker huddled in the corner
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poem by Patrick White
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