A Date With A Snake
The fork of his tongue is the pattern crawling
in the cracks of the floor where flecks of broken
glass shine like an artificial eye watching the spin
of the bottle. It's shattered neck foams the mouth
piece of endless anticipation waving her goodbye
when she wakes to the boozy stench any
plea for mercy is the sound of a tourniquet. If only
he had cleaner nails, not his impossible obsession
to crucify another dirty vein, so careless
you'd swear sacrifice becomes obvious when desire
is out of control, as insistent as the first time
they kissed before excusing themselves, bent
on the lino worn thin as the fortune-teller's hint
not to lick the poison, better to hit it with a spoon.
O Yes
If you'd asked me after the last glass
of gin, I would have said I'm smoking
imported cigarettes with an aftertaste of lemongrass
and sin, I would have quoted The Apostles' Creed,
the bit about Jesus' descent, mumbled something
about the symbolism of numbers, how wildly optimistic
to think on the third day it would be like listening
to Jeff Buckley sing 'Hallelujah' when it takes a good long
sleep to forget the shiny beads of my lover's sweat
mingling his scent with my flesh.
He smelt of sandalwood. When I lit an incense stick,
I licked my lips, opened the door so quickly
you'd have thought he was there and I
would have answered yes,
I would have grabbed him , thrown him on the bed
sat on his face until he begged
his hands gripping my waist,
his hair in disarray, o yes
i would have fed him impossible creamy
centered chocolates and forgive him everything
and never mention how I wept
from the scrap torn from the shadow
of a gaping moon
The Promise
At the cross roads, their reunion
spread eagles upon her tongue,
a feast of post-orgasmic kisses remembering
glimpses of other worlds;
the distance of the kitchen sink where
he flipped her thin mini skirt high
above her hips, slid his fingers
past her knickers, took her for a ride,
his winged sandals
discreet in some flight beyond the living
hell of transparent life now used to taunt
him in his bed late at night
when he's supposed to be at the cross roads
without sorcery or spells
stealing the milk, the bread,
the promise she holds
his head between her legs,
for worship by tongue and fingers
unveiling herself in his mouth
pouring into him
her naked self at the back
of his mind
broken when he's facing absolution
stripping tears
from the river styx.
[END]
© Alsion Daniel 2001
