The Crow and the Metaphor – 6/18/07

(I am a story, a book, a whisper wedded to October. A body, lashed and locked, swinging in the trees, blistering in the sun.)

She smiles, a cruel beak and black coverlet, a crow.


Lowers to my shoulders now, meditating.

(To scrape my bones bare, purple-gold decay.)

Brushes the skin and churns (pain) slowly…Slowly, rakes for parasites and juicy delicious.

Speak! My mouth is full of barbs and nettles, my tongue a wad of sandpaper filth. Look into my obsidian eyes! They drip, beads of blood crowning my neck in ruby-white acid. I am beautiful; I see and I breathe. My tongue is a kingdom of bees, dripping honey and sweet. Jeweled ants peak between my cracked fingers.

Lines of love and pain and death, red and crystal electric.

(I am, after all, a dying poet.)

…Do you understand, old friend?

Perhaps she reads the tales in my glassy eyes. Or likes me. The crow snaps her beak and continues about my lovelorn flesh. There, there. Look again, dear. Shake my metaphor chains, ooze onomatopoeia, riddle in irony ink, soak my lovely verses steeped in perfume and pungent poison-love.

Perhaps you understand: Why I'm dying to live (live my words on paper) – or vice versa: living to die a poet's death (melancholia). My words, tremulous and writhing, ripped from the heart and thrust, trepanned, onto ivory earth. The sun, the dew, the ant, the crow, carving delicious and sweet into my melting, weeping flesh. I cannot ask for more. But who am I to speak? I only dream and fix my eyes on the world.

"But please-"

(I am beautiful, a dying leaf, lacerated and raw ruby.)

"Will you please-"

(Tear it off…)