In memory

Why do I write about love?

Ah, if you knew him, you would know
   The sighs that move through my blood
The depth of his imperfection
  The mess of a life we have made

He is my all
   Pretentious and quaint it sounds
from lips bruised with cursing
his name

Through the valleys of time
 he has run behind
and ahead of me
 fading like twilight
into darkness

How we have loved
gloriously, abysmally
in and out of the void

stripping each other of fleshy humanity
 embracing unforgiving divinity
endearing madness for the
 purpose of slaking our thirst
endless, dizzying, soaring

What is this dance glorified
 by others
embraced in song and word?

Oh, child. Child.
The fire in my body
 would ravage the
sweetness of your face
 were I to tell

Your innocence would
 slink away to die
in the face of the
 Crimes that love commits

I write to be free
 of the webs and snares
he has set, like
 traps for rats in this mouldy
Cavern of life

He challenges me to be free!
 That I may cleave through
the waters of the illusion
The damnable boy
He is well worthy of love

(July 15, 2003)


3 thoughts on “In memory

  1. merrill says:

    you bring out the very *physicality* of love, the this-is-not-easy-or-sweet-this-is-anguish-and-please-don’t-stop-ness of it……..

    reminds me of something, another poem maybe, can’t think now(!) ….. it is almost there but not quite!

    i’ll be back!

  2. merrill says:

    “Love is not holding and cuddling. It is pushing back the limits.”
    — Emmanuelle Arsan

  3. merrill says:

    Knew I’d remember eventually

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