“The Ebony Prick of the White Rose’s Thorn”

Effervescent waterfalls cascading over each little edge like a cliff with the
precision of the inner workings of a clock. The delicate arch of your lips like a bow. The river of secrets flows from eden’s garden into the tooth of a canine. Leaning silver shields appear in the sky along with smaller other
things. And you appear born amid an assemblage of pillowy black clouds
descending from high above as history snowballs into mythology and then
at some point everything just stops cold.

A reclining nude is an undulating landscape. An angel goes to bed in
daylight slumber when the wind breathes above the grave of a young
prince who died early last spring. Now nothing remains for us but to begin
the game anew by way of a burning artery. Once only once beloved gentle
thief upon my arm you leaned your arm of snow. That memory flashes now. The hour was late. A gleaming metallic full moon showed her face and the nights splendor radiated over New York. Streaming through every silent
place, boys kissing boys in hallways hid. Beauty cannot remain so forever, these things never last. I succumb to a choreographed delusion mired in
filth which displays itself before me in the form of the gaping mouth of a
hyena. Some things we find we must keep to ourselves or they will
disappear. Tracing the outline of a shadow of a departing lover with your
finger the nail of which looks like the dark hard shell of a bug. The boy
carried on with his endless journey undaunted by a turbulent cycle of
grotesque dreams all seen from far behind those who were moving away
singing who had been seen passing along a river where even the reeds
repeated prayers went unheard. The birds took flight and flew further on.
The first to arrive where those that would not go away. Each step of the
way the road vanished as they went along they walked near the edges of
fields only to stop at the bank of a river where they slaked their thirst.
Clouds of dust formed at their feet as they strove for a place as yet

The wind continued to push at their backs as they marched on
towards the black silhouette of a door away from the vast bowels of
evening towards death’s icy hands where all who were going were going
anyway bit by bit. Together all shall cross the length and breadth of night
led by a guiding spirit towards a land of peaceful sorrow. Even though at
the moment we are tired and unable to rest. Maybe we should think of death as just a long beautiful voyage. A permanent vacation from the
streaming fingers of faded phosphorescent gloves and ultra-violent rays.
Blue blue is the sky over head the thread of ages ventures on towards the
stammering lisp of a queen and the pungent adolescent scents at the very
core of a nucleus of a dream called us. The light of day is upon your face.
The flesh of clouds made up of rare chiffon’s lie beneath angelic togas.
Which light lips caught up in the lens of a tracking back moving shot. We
are stranded in an enchanted forest at the base of a mountain. Your eyes
are windows of brutal suffering and bitter pain while between your legs lies the tongue of an oyster atop of which sits a white shimmering pearl. A
bright floral pattern seen through the eye of a magnifying glass swiftly spun
inside the transparent dome of a bell jar. Thoughts are toys to the imagination like objects spread out on a tray like a sacred catechism before
the evil genius me. Mouthfuls of night are swallowed in haste beneath the
stars by cackling magpies. Chromatic towers so lofty that the view is no
longer obstructed by soaring mountains. The sky no longer turns away in
anger and there are no longer outbursts of shrieking storms that pour down
from the heavens as the daylight slowly leaves the sky and dew drops are
only spit. A tiny weightless capsule of vast light flinging black garlands towards the sea is a foreshadowing of death. All this takes place in the
absence of dreams, which are blankets of water and the sun is but a chilly
memory. The desolation of a hand reaching out just as the tide begins to
turn. What is this road that separates us from this thing which I hold out in
the hand of my thoughts? A flower is tattooed at the very tip of each finger
and at the very end of every road is a flower. I detect the memory of your
voice as it alit my shoulder and cradled my thoughts as telegraph wires
sped away high above our heads as the thud of a rock struck the moon. An
orchestra of french horns and acid flavored strings tuning up behind a
spangling curtain of tinsel invented a new sound as we fight for every
breath as our bodies are quaking shaking me down to my throat
as a lacy cloth is lifted which reveals the fragile craftsmanship of a

Here is the mirror where fine lines of white blow sit. Some crave
this white shit while others choose to ignore this white shit. In my voice
dwells the shrillness of an unsympathetic hell. As the things that I pursue
are those things that are always just out of my reach. Just as colors
disappear through the refracted prism of a stark naked eye I too shall fade
away too one day like the moonlight when it catches your hair. Just as
fanciful collages fill the air. Retracing my steps like a drunken sailor in the early morning dawn as arias ascend with celestial smoothness on the wind.
I will make my way back to you with all the savage grace of a seahorse
caught up in the twisting rage of a storm. While over yon lies a dead ballerina covered in pale roses. The music died down and became a mellow flow. No one, not a single one turned around to look over their shoulder as they quietly abandoned the place of spaces. Not even the
junked-out riffraff with cherubic smiles dared. Everyone just got up and left without saying a single word. I was the only one left behind dumbstruck and all alone. Mine is not a fate to be pitied for it is not tragic. My destiny lies in the hands of an ever shimmering hourglass. Fading chants were multiplied and echoed with majestic resonance like a mighty moaning that comes down from some accursed place. From behind rows of colossal columns balancing the heavens as my heart thundered with a sinister intoxication. Everything was all light and angles as I approached the tomb of sacred memories where I once knew paradise and lost it. My life is a web of lies. I saw the palm of my hand unfurl like a map. The lines creasing the flesh of my small child palm spread out before me as a voyage as yet not undertaken. What I saw was unknown adventures beckoning to me that could only be seen with the eyes of a child filled with marvelous jewels hewn from the stars and beyond.

for Patti Smith