Transparent Words - Poetry

 

Dee Rimbaud

IN THRALL TO LILITH
 
She parades into my dreams: her impudent pudenda, an open, intricately carved flower.
Bees and stinging things live within, waiting for the soft whisper of invitation. She is vinegar
and vanilla, vaseline and vagina.
 
 
She is a cascade of vocabulary: vibrant and vivid. The supreme vivisector of vacuous
idolatry.
 
 
Her dictionary is a thrashing of ten-fold limbs; and all meaning is encoded in the fluttering of
her labial wings. I am a prisoner to her intelligence, her volition, her erudition.
 
 
There are pale blue men
working her Siberian pits,
freezing;
and all for the want of a kiss.
 
 
Lying out on her gypsy brass bed, she smokes a cheroot: staining the walls with disdainful
agitation - her cheeks, red as the cheeks of Modiglianiís whores.
 
 
The blasphemies of pigment beguile: viscous rivers drain the soul of every homely warmth.
Her likeness cannot be caught: it eludes with simplistic ease. Teasing, she baffles me with
the pink virtuosity of her tongue.
 
 
In vain, I reach out to grasp her grassy banks: yearning for the safety of a foreign shore;
the heat of inevitability, the dark depths of her cavities.
 
 
It was she who devoured my strong ancestors: she who left Christ crying and gasping for
breath. What hope then for me, with only my clotted paintbrushes and second hand
adjectives to protect me?
 
 
The future, I see, is a glassy cold pit: yielding nothing more than small handfuls of flawed
diamonds.

 

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