ab oriri kabu

ab oriri kabu

These walls—
There are Skeletons hanging,
Dangle dangle dangling—
Bones clicking in my manger.
Like pearls tinkling against a china tea cup
As a neck dips forward to tell secrets—
Tonguing old taboos
“I spy a Victorian ruse”
100-proof to swill bleeding purity
And a phallic noose to hang the neck of modesty:

See, Illusion is my tricky game.

Sitting by myself—
In the middle of my bedroom, the lonely station,
Rain streams down my windows,
And the train blares its horn,
(Now it’s 1 o’clock a.m.)—
In my light nightgown,
Penning poem after poem,
Line after line,
Extending your image over my words—

hush hush,
whisper whisper whisper.

I am the victim of consciousness.
This room is dead silent
Where God’s heartbeat haunts me,
And only convention suffocates
As I kill that Angel of the House…
While society breathes deeply,
The politics of my sexuality bleed from my pen—

Then could I stretch you beyond reliability?
And re-build you
Through the architectonics of stylistic tradition?
Using words buried in words,
The place in your mind where the brilliance flashes;
The lexical copse where Custom is living.
The place I would find you
Waiting for me and remembering
Antique rehearsals we carved together—

The scratching of my pen against the white paper
Wielding words to draw you nearer
Slashing through borders of your external beauty
And the silence of imagination
Line after line—

It is my expression of eloquence no one will notice
Floating furtively in front of them:

Will the train connect me to you,
Curving around the tracks?—
(I curve around your bed)—

For I know what not I would fathom,
In an hour of remorse;
And, where’s the burning of my mind?
In Silence and slow time,
In the ashes of the Grecian urn,
For ever warm, preserved of life,
Until I feel the obsession of
The all breathing human passion far above.
But the Ear cannot know Color,
Nor Sense, discursive morals;
This pen is jammed—
I must write with blood
Words of purpose,
Words from the layers:
The World wants to know a new story;
The World wants to know the same story,
But Memory flees from my veins—
These windows are bone bared.
There is only breath in the living, death in the lifeless,
For science is the spy of the future’s reflection,
As a hierarchal past is exposed as fraud
Of national myths that captured imaginations
In the guise of old whore petticoats…

whisper hush whisper
hush hush
whisper whisper