A poem inspired by the Muse of Cold Earth.
Francis
Sometimes they want to stick their fingers down your
Throat, those cyclopean halls. Cry till they let you kiss
The feet of the czars on step ladders, and
We aren’t even stars
–
The fire in us is metaphorical but when
My chest heaves and I place my fingers on the wick of a lit candle it
Is the same sensation
Do you believe me about that?
–
I invented life!
You invented life!
We all invented life when we first saw the unchangeable beast in the mirror
And I’m discovering it again through live burial in living tissue,
Begging
–
To kiss the monster in the mirror,
Raceless, immobile and timelessly queer
Begging
–
To invert your valley-girl pragmatism into mountains of madness
Like the man who rubbed stones together, invented fire and was
Disemboweled for it.
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