Oh Queen of Macedonia we are the symptoms of a molecular joke, so will you dance me the mad dance again with the rage in your flaming hair, the dance you danced that night in the heartened dark behind the market? Will you trace the wild measures until they glow stiff, trapped in the teem of your world because my love there is no dance without words, only movement.
There is no without a beginning; we happen beyond the spell of our primate metaphysics, oh Queen of Macedonia, we are mistral ventures rippling across the hottening sand. We sheath each other in the world like this, setting suns over its asphaltic veins and smelting a farewell to the reckoning who enjoyced this, who is not mad for lack of lack, who is not afraid to reinvent everything for the mild embedded illness that we are.
Reality is repetition, the cavernous gesture we make at each other when we are not sleeping. There is a mild curiosity in its echo mustaching the promise of endless spacing, the glimpsing of a fish world to inhabit. In defiance we hew cobblestone streets helixing the tower of Babel, to the disoxygenated heights where memories lie dying, where we abet the master’s language lest she stales our thoughts away. We Rorschach the paladins in stony rows and plot the consciousness of the king who absented himself in premature nocturia. We offer Him prayment with the folding of our hands.
Oh mather now your night has fallen, you once nocturned me and weaned me curious. I derelish the womby presense you had of me, so let the old skippers bid their good-byes to you in their evening rags, and let me not speak out the palimpsest that I carry on my aching palate. Whence it winnows in my dreams, I am drawing a plow over barren land and sow, and sow
our storyness grows, like layers of ice upon ice assailed by dancing feet. Ten years ago I was squirreling, raincoated for the thaw of your forgotten smiles, I was a curfewed Thales sandaling away the starry evenings. Oh Queen of Macedonia, do you feel the weight of Dionysos underneath the breadth of your orgasm? You compassed all of my world in me so I implore you, Sistercian, my sweet sorella, speak to me.
One thought on “Oh Queen of Macedonia”