The angels stood by, watching and some of them took pictures

Apr 09, 2008 - 05:09 AM PST

I sipped a glass of Desprapill, and counted all the rooms
In that fine corridor of lust that leaded to your throne.

No tremor here.
I move too fast to tremble.
Doors fly by like falling squares
My legs and arms like pairs
Of windmill sails
Swing… rhythmic… faster…

Cautions, cares dissemble.

“You always that?” One angel cries.

Another, “Don’t you see the traps?”

But deafly blithe, a brave thing, I
Ignore in bliss the chance I’d die
And hurl me on toward your lie
As if no fear could terrify…

“Such courage!”
“See him leap ahead!”
“What man would call that foolish?”
“But we are angels!”
“Ahhhh!” They wisely sigh in unison… as angels do when danger’s nigh.

I now recall no strategy.
No ‘What means this?’ No calculi.
No eye for arrow, dart or quill,
Nor reverie that blood could spill
And neither was in me the will
To heed such pale distractions.

But I counted all the rooms in that fine corridor of lust.
By nick and gash and bone chipped deep, yet now I bear their mark.

Your mother’s warnings,
They are etched into my arm, just here.
Your Papa’s caution
‘Cross my breast, lies written with a spear.
Your grannie’s knee-top bad-love tale
On mine is writ again,
Indeed the very scars of love
Are witnessed by the pain
That leaded to your throne along the corridor of lust, where the angels came and watched me run; where some of them took pictures.

The Very Soul of Broken
Is my hushed name for my heart,
A name not ever spoken,
That abides to teach the art
That love is best prepared for.
Then there’s hope within its start.

And I sip my glass of Desprapill
To quell those pains with stealth
And where the fool that rushed is gone
Has followed all my wealth
As I count in memory all the rooms in that fine corridor of lust
That leaded to your mesh of snare...
Where none would dare,
Where yet, I dared.