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- The Prince, Redux
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
'Tis true, the skull is held aloft each night -
nostalgia bleeds down the inside wrist
like molten wing-glue,
yet the metaphors won't mix in this emulsion:
there is no sun here; there is no chance of flight,
the hawk and the handsaw are known apart.
A straitjacket is typed and named a poem,
grief kerned tightly, a weave to filter the passage of madness,
and, as though pinned beneathed the vocabulary of forms,
Ophelia gags in the stitching.
This poem blisters into a catacomb. A mummy's curse.
Every other poem is a virgin's unravelled womb.
A patriarchal tomb. A view with a room.
Perhaps a pride of feminists will deconstruct
this poem to reveal its penis, obscured by the symbols -
it is only the wittiest lioness among them who will yell
that she scraped the interior of each word
and the shavings didn't hold a trace.
Truth is, it was the virgin who was crucified, with child.
The son, indivisible from the vanishing mother.
The death of the light of the world.
Tonight I'll brave the crumbling parapet,
anxious for an audience with the ghosts of my fathers,
and hum a hymn for your every barren dream of Elsinore.
Barren Dream Of Elsinore
Take care, keep safe, and stay beautiful,
With love and peace,
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