Catherine Had an Appetite
for Love of a diluvium stallion Catherine remembered something great-- fury of muscle and airborne travel. Clipped, tough hooves shred her eagerly; did I mention that she loved it? That she remembered something? (The night she was lifted over Moscow, floated bitterly on a bed of hair; then, another time, the way fur felt on her shoulders.) Slicing through her gut the stallion got gelded and meek. If she canÔt be broken, rip up her turf or sex a myth, the bestialist empress finally done to death. Wet eunuch beast left foaming and spooked. Joan of Arc How'd You Get So Fine so didn't bathe, speared navel awash in mangled guts, ripe purple bruise surfacing soft pulpy organs, offering them up sweet as a wife. Is blooming the form that angels take, dumb shit soaring pure love in winter? My flesh gets royal in February; give me something to ride on already. Then she's a tramp in torn hosiery-- what is it to you, yellow edge appearing on day six? The smell is like volition, but better: rangy rank of decay known terminally by effusive hearts. She's got one too, you know. In her, frying red. Dance it Out These batted lashes, two thick onyx pairs, fixed on for days. They won't peel off now, tar-heavy glue sticking to my lids desperately, doing the job-- let's call it avarice-- I've always done so well. One hospital white as the next, always looming in the near distance. This is what we call a "threat," what I call a real nasty scene. In front of the mirror I move horsehair brush back and forth over my sweet, moony face like the swing of a bridge, song of speed. I'm force tired, spent last night tight-lipping vials of LSD in the kitchen, rhinoceros looming over the whole scene proudly, purified witness born while being stuffed, old safari skin. This is Park Avenue, this is Madison, this is me, enhanced scars a beauty effect on a Saturday night. A wild trip, all this: sex mockery, silver, all my furs stolen by friends-- have you seen my Dior, my Balenciaga, my hair? And the night I crashed against memory with color burning behind my eyes: spun, in volition, with California in front and New York behind. I really mean it this time. I mean recalcitrance, autonomy, womanhood and the popping stick of needles. Oh rush When I get there, everything will get holy-- I'll rise right up to the smarting sun stoned as any prophet and shimmy Ôtil it smarts, Ôtil these simmering lashes curl up and up and into cosmic heaven, pearl drop of twenty-eight years riding me like a vision. |