This flower is fire red,
a core of vermilion,
petals petulantly open.
Within the folds of stamens,
filaments and fuzz
is a centre of cunt;
a descent into primal void,
into primitive violent being.
The taste of it
in the mouth
is sour, musty, intoxicating:
the taste of blood
pulsating to the ululating tide
of the moon.
What I mean to say though,
writing in the dust with bones, is...
my dreams are peopled with holes:
tunnels, entrances, openings;
a crazy paving of windows and doors.
I am constantly a victim of movement,
squeezing through constrictions,
falling or flying through dead, silent air;
and in my dreams, always
I awake to the ubiquitous wan, grey light
of sleepless morning
scratching armpits, face, thighs,
rubbing never-quite-awake eyes:
the petals of yesterday like dust
to the rusted clock's restless ride
And what is on that other side?
An unattainable, unimaginable light!
Through this blood flower,
through the angry vibrant red of it,
the root of our collective being,
the root of our animal soul,
we struggle towards the light.
It is no accident
that this spectrum starts in red.
We are all blood:
To dive into red
is to be swallowed by cunt
the clamped agonies of our birth
in anticipation of death
and the ultimate constriction
from which there is no release...
death is the place
we have truly learned to fear
suspecting there is
no hallucinated rainbow,
no fantastic flight...
only unspeakable blackness:
the ultimate negation of light.
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