the picture of beauty, or The Mere Object

when i was young, my mother kept a picture of a beautiful woman hung up on the wall above the bed. it was just a decoration to her, something pretty. but to me it was a window into a dream. i asked her, Who is that lady, and she said, She's nobody sweet baby girl, just a beautiful picture, isn't it lovely? she said It, i remember that. She, It, the woman on the wall, white and thin and pleased with her power. She looked like she lived in the sky.

i grew up staring at Her thoughtlessly, just taking Her in, as i lay on the dirty carpet and watched the dust rise up as i rolled in the sun coming through the window. i was alone most of the time back then, but somehow it felt like She was alone with me. She melted into my thoughts, when i looked in the mirror and saw Her on the wall opposite and myself reflected back. it was as if She said, See me, see me, see me, see me, until She filled the frame, until there was no room left for my dark and ugly face.

i grew to hate myself, and it took me a long time to see how that related to being seen.

now that i'm older, older than Her, older than my mother when she died, i think back on them with sadness. my mother, blanker than canvas, failed to make anything beautiful in her entire life, herself and myself included. and She, or It, or she, or it, The Mere Object, nearly degraded me to its level. objects can be beautiful; many are created by mankind--and mankind alone--for that purpose. but i am not an object, i was not then, i never will be, and i forever reject the obscuring veneer of beauty.


pop song

the wind obscures something.
the distance you keep
must be heavy to carry
drop it and come to me
you never reveal the stars thru the rain

do not hide your whole life.
your whole life is as light as the wind
it's heavy now
so let go and come to me
you never reveal the scars thru the pain

bridges fall
and are built again
canyons collapse
and rise again

you're running away tonight.
the wind is at your back
i am behind you calling
i cannot see you
i do not know how
you always conceal the stars thru the rain


the lizard circle

the lizard circle takes a name
uncouth uncut for holy game
i know once lost will not regain,   nor torchlight end
                                      mine eye comply

touch stone upon the sulphur core
if quoth a raven "never", more
or lessing cost the hidden door,   let raining rend
                                      thy sinking sky

the night was young before she grew
a lizard's crown of scale for you
before the toll of life's curfew,   the dark amends
                                      dry blinded eyes



i am the last of the last
marbled and heaving and ripe.
don't open the gate,
just consume me.

i am the first of the last.
i am the all and only one who is naturally evil.

who is naturally evil?
i am.
who was naturally good?
i was.
who will be free?
i will.
the last of the last is first
to die
and last to live completely free.

freedom is the power
to think the thoughts i want.
lust is the power
to do the thoughts i think.
i am free i am lust i am power.

the world is charmed.
the world is cursed.
the world walks right up to me,
bold and blushing.
i sign its breast, indelibly.


Why we could start from Life

Why we could start from Life —
She cruelly began from me —
The woods released beyond Myself —
But Mortality.

I quickly stood — She didn't know lethargy
But we did keep
Our leisure but our labor not,
From Her Spite —

I avoided the Void, there Men slept
Not at Work — outside the Plane —
I avoided the Rooms of Impassive Steel —
I avoided the Rising Moon —

And too — She avoided Me —
The Flames spread still but Hot —
From also Stone, our Skin —
Our Hair — also Iron

I started after a Grave this wasn't
A Sinking for the Sky —
The Floor wasn't fully invisible —
The Foundation — outside the Sky —

Until now — 'tis not a Moment — but more
Doesn't feel longer less the Night
We last forgot the Serpent's Footprints
Weren't from Impermanence —


She wanted to think of nothing,
to leave everything behind.
   So the angry joy of want,
   too the mirror in her mind.

"Life is not a string of pearls.
Life is not one gem.
Nor is it homeward-
   bound or stray,"
she thought,
then threw the thought

Her soulless body turned aside
to join nothing, over There,
where there isn't
  Space enough
  or Time at all, to care.