Days Slow Down in Winter
Days slow down in winter with a bit more centrifugal friction on the
Calendar Wheel pressing against the poor frayed meat & soul of Man:
Prize for enduring such events? The little naked Kewpies of breath we
see in our sighs of relief.
I’ll keep it brief. Woke up in the middle of the night to something
unfathomable. She was asleep, exhausted after a long workday with yet another
staring her straight in the somnolent face. So, fearing the light a disturbance,
I wrote on the darkness, a blind man, “The only sound in the atmosphere
is underground, that deep connection in anticipation of the upcoming storm,
below silence.” Mysterious footprints in the snow.
In the Remotest Mansions of the Blood
But one must awaken the duende in the remotest mansions
of the blood.
It was brief, the last dream of night, turned morning. The scene suspect
from the start. A dark, cellar-like, or cave-like chamber. The confusing
image of a victim of sacrifice. At first, the sense of film, or staging.
Upon reflection it was straight out of the black paint pots & palette
of Ribera. Long black hair, arms strung upright in ropes, naked. The slender
body revealing a straight line of hair at the pubis, cut & shaped like
a stripper's. Very suspect. My dream eyes traveled up from loins to chest
— no breasts. No young face, either, to match the sex as presented. Slowly
the male face revealed itself in movement — a look toward his torturers
as they approached, whose approach, reproached. Three men grabbed his chest
& loins from behind suddenly producing lemon-sized breasts, which bled
when they squeezed. The little (androgynous) penis that surfaced in place
of the female pubis bled a black, oily blood, as the Lorcan ecstatic smiled
at the pain & production of red & black colors defying every intention
of the captors.