On nights when stars pierce the dirty panes,
And the moon casts shadows in my dark room,
With gentle embrace I cradle invisible space,
And my velvet heart beats to thoughts of you.
The miles between us are meaningless,
Crossed instantly on avenues of moonlight.
Oh, Chimera! You bitch! You miserable fucking bitch! I hate you! I do. I do. When I slid from the womb, you greeted me. This is how it seems to me; I cannot remember a time you had not inserted your venom in my fresh vein. A time I was free, was there? When I achieved words, I noticed you in my head. I thought you. I imagined you in splendour. The most beautiful lass of an eternal spring . Bees in rosy cups. Dew on morning grass. Say, 5. Jesus Christ, 5. You bitch. You could have turned and left me hole, but that was not your plan. Was it! And you have carried it all these years and polluted my story, have controlled a script I would not want, and I the victim of my own addicted lust. No human being would want that. I did not want you. Want lust for you, whom I could not have. I wanted freedom from you. That is what I was angry for. You damn thing! I did not want you in a way that would have been good for me. I longed for you, craved you, lusted for you, powerless to foreswear the storm. Like having mad, mad seamen. Forever have I reached, and always could not grasp. Held off shore by a ceaseless, contrary wind. Hopelessly striving. You. The most beautiful. Most desireous. You never materialized, never gave me your grace, the peace of pure or carnal love. I humble myself before you yet. I am not saved, or reformed, or free of your torment. I will be when I am dead. Only then, be damned. I long for your embrace the rest of my days. My dread of Hell is an afterlife with you, the first agony I meet. Jesus, may I perish totally from any Earth, from such a Hell. I want nothing more than to have you or to be rid of you, complete. You bitch. May death, annihilation body and soul, I pray is my salvation. Then to hell with you. To HELL with you, Chimera!
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This reminds me of Emily Dickenson’s surgery in her poetry to present such insight in so brief and beautiful a cut. Beautiful and loaded with pathos.
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