She Rose at Twilight

She rose at twilight

and strode through the wild Abyss at the end of all flesh,

the heaven and the earth meeting like two shimmering lips.

Her mind was quiet here.

They call her vexed, a lost little girl with

an oedipal/chimerical smoothie of a complex.

They say the only way to love her marginality

is to fuck and love those and only those in that same marginality.

She shakes her head and rips heaven apart with her cry:

“I don’t give a shit about ethical efficacy,

I want epochal ecstasy!”

She sits in the troubled euphoria of her confession.

(All is a confession,

the universe is a confession with impulsive and clumsy commotion).

A shame should be there, yet only does she feel joy.

“Gentlemen, ladies," she cries, “bear witness to these instruments of murder.

These are my starry eyes, my bashful smile, my Salome hips,

but look closely in my breast to find the real culprit.

Yes, twas she who did the deed; after all, hearts function best under muted brains.”

She is your flower, you are her pomegranate,

and in your pregnant causes they mix toxically, lest she makes them ordained.

You are not her past, so she cherishes you as her future.

You shall fear neither greed, nor envy, nor myth, nor spite, long as you possess

Her deepest darkest materials to create new love.