i.
Picture Seville, prudent with orange-groves. The sun plays like a gnossienne beneath the trees, a tormented harlequin writhing on the fine soil. The disgruntled lemon puckers. The lemon-lipped hidalgos seethe. And Juan is stealing from his lover’s bed.
Juan crawls on the dappled soil, a darkening sublimity. And the dappled syllable writhing on those fine moor lips, darkens to a liturgy.
“Woman, deliciae meae, is a delight
to touch. Woman, deliciae
meae, is a delight to touch. Woman,
deliciae meae, is a delight to touch.”
ii.
Dusk fellates the air. Seville’s adipose terminals droop under the puckered moon. An invert ciascuro writhes beneath the fruiting hyphens. The crawling parasite rides on the back of the harlequin. And the lemon-lipped hidalgos sweep the scene.
Hyphenated storms play Juan’s moor lips. The hidalgos move in brutal rhythm. The hunters sally through the groves. The groves depilate in bursting punctuations. Seville falls, orb by pappy orb. Juan is all hyphen as he runs, leaving the sour hidalgos to their pulp.
iii.
“Three syllables ago, I
was seething in my love, but now
they catch up, ride the next,
and mount my lips
in hidalgo sweeps; three syllables
ago, thrashing more,
insistent six and seven, eight. Three
syllables ago I was seething
in my love, but now
even my thoughts
run and run, three syllables ago
run and run— I cannot
catch the language;
the pulse of thought
is constant.”
iv.
“Horses do not paw, they hoof.
Summer burns the English neck.
Woman fluctuates by moons–filthy!
Strawberries bring her out in hives.
Oranges are messy.”
v.
I would whip them all to think
a woman loves in allegories (that even Love
is allegory!), though by her
bitter smile she whispers loves
in brutal parallelograms. The husband
bends her to his will, the woman
bends her will to me, we three
corrupted symmetry. I will love her,
beast of the triple-backed self, as I love
my own delineated form, a perfect
onanism.
vi.
His sensitivities — like a crueller pigeon coo;
a summer girl sniggering into her salad;
the broad man roughly shoving the thin man aside–
are the whinnies of resilient spring.
And by a brutal pagination, he
becomes the satan of the ballroom
vii.
“Do not call my name – it is
the myth
that drives me, the
idling
brook.”
