In the deep, deep shades of bruise-purple sleep
I curl into my corner darkness

And free as a bird am I
And twice as lovely
And there he is

The voice that
charms the heathens and incites the revolution
stills the heavens from their feverish churning
draws the fire from the sky and cradles it in fists of ice

The voice of the struggle, the voice of the people, that
braces steel-eyed and rock-solid against the tyranny of hours and generations
gathers the light and swallows the darkness
draws down the summer rains to the parched, cracking lips of the lamb
whispers waiting and imagining and dreaming
will not rest until the last screeching propoganda minister has been draped
in the chains of his own lies and drifted to dust
along the flame-licked shores of the last wasteland

The voice that
pierces my veins with the sweet, lush euphoria of perfect loss and
certain knowing of what can never be
until a brick-hard burst of laughter at my elbow
reminds me yet to breathe
wraps my skin in thorns and iron and dares to push me forward into the fire
thrusts deep into my soul and steals my last shred of resolve,
and leaves me slumped, shivering, on a white tile floor


2003-04-21

---

Just the sound of your voice
And my heart began racing
Rushing, rushing
Plunging headlong into the bracing cold, clear aqua vitae
Of
Churning too fast towards an unexpected ecstasy
Too fucking fast
And before I knew it
My breath was gone
Lungs filled with a sweet cool fever
(Where did you come from?)
What a mad obsession this is
Sexless, but for the fire in my throat
and the black gaze hidden
behind a wall of revolution

2003-04-21