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Sep. 15th, 2003 01:07 pmUnder the satellites we watched together, the voice behind me, the walls before me.
O mist! O hunger in my bones for you to seep within me, fill me sodden and cold!
The voice arose on the night air, it was a cloud of gnats a balked wave that hurt to find outlet, ached to hurl itself free of the shore, "Events slide around us, we are at the turning of the tide, borne by the current of time. We are the summer moon blank and curlicued by the heat."
O, moon! I thought.
"You must stand still to hear the embrace of the heat fall so softly around her," the voice said. "Fall and fall like two great tired arms about her shoulders."
I longed then to be overheated by her tongue, to swim in the bruising and unrepentent cataract of her fingers at play. I was speaking, not any other. My voice had drawn me out, led me to the square by guise of colorful byplay. I smiled at the thought of all these bright clothes I'd found for each of my words. How do we extract ourselves from anything? How do we extract ourselves from the embrace of the Market of the City of the Dead? Who will lead us back from silence? Who will pull us out of the embrace of time?
Above my head, I knew that faces framed in the windows gawked at the empty square: devoid of markers, devoid of mists, filled only with the remnants of my own delusion and this sweet myrrh of laughter.
O chaos! No lust is abrupt enough to satisfy. We run and sweat, each like horses, like the mounts of the Angry Men, driven by their whips and the fumes and nothing can be denied them when the moonlight falls just so upon pavement, upon belichened mildewed walls. We love each other in secret ceremonies denied them continuously by our only weapon: privation, spent softly amid drifted mounds of our own bodies. I feel myself in and out, stepping forward ever slower, falling like the face of that suddenly too-close moon.
From above me I finally heard the sound of women, their muttered invective not nearly as obscene as the things in my brain. I doubted they longed to fill up the moon, the night air, the mouths of their lovers like I did. Beneath their voices, I felt oscillations in the night air like the wind's will had bent over the walls (in its own way crudely attentive like so many nubile prostitutes) and sought to spend itself on the interior of the courtyard.
So finally I stood, in spite of hope, and looked in at the city streets behind me, above at the windows, beyond to the moon.
Wait. ?
Moon? There?
"We weren't quite ready ourselves, " I called out. "To see the moon above you, there!"
One dark head emerged in a shadowy burst of black curls against the pale wall. She glared at me, looking for irony on my face.
"The moon," I pleaded. "Why is it--"
She smiled too slowly and I realized I stood there beneath the mad reversed sky, ready for the kill jar, the pin through the limbs, the collection box. I searched her eyes at that distance, but could discern nothing except a closely-kept hunger. More women appeared, whose voices I'd written off so casually while I'd searched the ground. Fire limmed their colorful faces and I knew my hidden lust was doomed for exposure. I held no hope for mercy or for excuses.
O mist! O hunger in my bones for you to seep within me, fill me sodden and cold!
The voice arose on the night air, it was a cloud of gnats a balked wave that hurt to find outlet, ached to hurl itself free of the shore, "Events slide around us, we are at the turning of the tide, borne by the current of time. We are the summer moon blank and curlicued by the heat."
O, moon! I thought.
"You must stand still to hear the embrace of the heat fall so softly around her," the voice said. "Fall and fall like two great tired arms about her shoulders."
I longed then to be overheated by her tongue, to swim in the bruising and unrepentent cataract of her fingers at play. I was speaking, not any other. My voice had drawn me out, led me to the square by guise of colorful byplay. I smiled at the thought of all these bright clothes I'd found for each of my words. How do we extract ourselves from anything? How do we extract ourselves from the embrace of the Market of the City of the Dead? Who will lead us back from silence? Who will pull us out of the embrace of time?
Above my head, I knew that faces framed in the windows gawked at the empty square: devoid of markers, devoid of mists, filled only with the remnants of my own delusion and this sweet myrrh of laughter.
O chaos! No lust is abrupt enough to satisfy. We run and sweat, each like horses, like the mounts of the Angry Men, driven by their whips and the fumes and nothing can be denied them when the moonlight falls just so upon pavement, upon belichened mildewed walls. We love each other in secret ceremonies denied them continuously by our only weapon: privation, spent softly amid drifted mounds of our own bodies. I feel myself in and out, stepping forward ever slower, falling like the face of that suddenly too-close moon.
From above me I finally heard the sound of women, their muttered invective not nearly as obscene as the things in my brain. I doubted they longed to fill up the moon, the night air, the mouths of their lovers like I did. Beneath their voices, I felt oscillations in the night air like the wind's will had bent over the walls (in its own way crudely attentive like so many nubile prostitutes) and sought to spend itself on the interior of the courtyard.
So finally I stood, in spite of hope, and looked in at the city streets behind me, above at the windows, beyond to the moon.
Wait. ?
Moon? There?
"We weren't quite ready ourselves, " I called out. "To see the moon above you, there!"
One dark head emerged in a shadowy burst of black curls against the pale wall. She glared at me, looking for irony on my face.
"The moon," I pleaded. "Why is it--"
She smiled too slowly and I realized I stood there beneath the mad reversed sky, ready for the kill jar, the pin through the limbs, the collection box. I searched her eyes at that distance, but could discern nothing except a closely-kept hunger. More women appeared, whose voices I'd written off so casually while I'd searched the ground. Fire limmed their colorful faces and I knew my hidden lust was doomed for exposure. I held no hope for mercy or for excuses.