yuzublizzard

“Sovereignty does not regard the relation between father and son. A king, it is said, should deem no man his relation.” Jahangir, Mughal of India 1605-1627.

Rocks.
Snatched from the mountain’s womb, these eggs
Hatch, in human beds,
Strife. Even the white is flushed in pigeon blood.

Suns
Unsetting unsettle the mind. The peacock’s eyes,
Blind, mesmerize
The pack. Whelps of wolves soon grown: my sons.

Embers
Cold heat the blood, make feet quicken, pulses roar,
Stain marble floors
Red. We waltz. Gaffs steeled to sliver, dismember.

Flames,
Quenched from one offspring’s pits, rotten holes,
Burn on, having gold
Fuel. The breed’s carbuncle stare scorch the planes.

I pose no danger to worms
As I sleep through sunrise and thunderstorms.
Rising I brush the thorns from my hair,
Put rose petals in my underwear,
Conjure bronze suns that bleed
Around and into the seeds
Of my apples. Cheeks I lightly stain
With apricot from H. Rubinstein.
I anoint each inch of hide;
It glistens as it swiftly glides
Into the cover of my cloak.
I know how the fire is stoked.
Beauty, though ephemeral and vain,
Caused the Baptist’s head to be slain.

When life will be less complicated,
And thoughts of tomorrow cease to be,
When all ambition has abated
I intertwined the two of us see:

The joy of touching makes euphoric
“You kiss so well without your teeth!”
Your breath is sweetly alcoholic;
It tickles life back to this heath.

Buttons are hard with my arthritis.
You are sitting on the bed
Watching the world’s slowest strip-tease,
Pearls of sweat form on your head.

Bodies engage in conversation,
Movements slow like those of snails.
And you rise to the occasion;
Science helps where nature fails.

Youthful beauty does not linger:
Skin is dry, our buttocks sag,
But as I suck your pointing finger
I feel a most privileged hag.

Pulses race, our breathing is heavy,
I whisper softly “oui, j’adore”.
Now I see angels as you take me
Closer to heaven than ever before.