Saturday, 14 January 2012

swept back to the setting sun, the cursed do run in circles,
the circles are select, the black hearts collect and elect, 
and run rings around their necks, sacred symbols of respect. 

crept round and saw all heck, the gathering specks and flakes and pulp 
and weeds and overripe, overbearing, ominous shadows, all bunched up like
laundry, that should've been dealt with, wet spun, long cycle, shaken, dried, 
ironed and folded.

leapt up and pounced crying with the heat and laughter of a jackal, 
the rapture of fire and the crackle, while the burn stung a black heart 
onto white skin, as the sacred symbols tied me to his and his to him. 

slept though the night in the company of perfect strangers, 
led astray by perfect dangers, the exquisite shapes of ursa major,
the languid legs, the rings were spun in unbreakable silk,
my legs were bound and my eyes were knit to the sky. 

swept back your hair and gazed into your eyes, 
watching your pupils dizzy dance of perfect circles, 
how they rang rings around us, 
how have they found us? 
how the gods to astound us and now.

we are stuck here in the dark, 
at the altar, listening to the crackling of our skin, 
a hearth to warm our kin, 
a sacred sacrifice, 
bound lambs deafened, defenseless and dim.

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