Bonjour Minuit (2013-14)
a theatre of poetry
Everything is so bloody damp!
— colors, smells, shadows, sounds,
the sounds of insects mating.
There must have been millions and millions of anthill-ful of petty lives congregating here, in trees, in bushes, in bogs, each laboring away its insignificant passion – the passion for survival, for replicating oneself. Creatures in want; earth, steaming with fecundity.
O pigmentarii qui estis in suavissima
viriditate hortorum Regis.
Oh mine verdant delight!
For thy unshorn coxa and femur
I shall tremble in heat.
Such lascivious rhythm
flapeth thy mosaic wings!
Leteth us sing to god’s praise in joyous,
‘rgasmic squeal and screech and squeaketh.
Eh-eh we zeeh-zeeh-zeeh thou rrr~~~
in this embowell’d garden of earthly delights.
It’s darkening, in a way molasses
darkens in hot pot,
taut amber blacker than black.
Everything’s so bloody sticky! Sweat’an all!
Not that I have problem with sweating. The other day at the river Charmaine and I made love. It was really hot and we went for a dip in the spring. She wore this little citric yellow top – bandeau, I heard it called, and went into the cold good water with just that and her knickers. After the swim we baked ourselves on the shore pickled-turnip style until dried through and wet again with sweat seeping out of skin. Her clothes was still damp and clinging; her nipples – two dark points – poking beneath that thin yellow like little peaks, her eyes shut-not her lips parted. When my groin itched and I went down to scratch I felt that swell’an-stiff. I crouched over her, hands reaching into the little top to rub her nipples. They were hard as chestnuts! Soon we were roughing each other up in glutinous earnest, I her hot, sweet sticky buns in hands, kneading and handling, she my entirety in, breaths broken and gone with her ghost. We were both awash in gale of sweat, thickly lubricated and fuming with sex and algae. Around us was this same quiet – the quiet of busy water, fumbling insects, staggering breezes.
Except here there is no breeze –
Time so insipid that it bore this bloody dampness.
I would stop.
The steep path continues over yonder, where shines that airier, earlier gold promising a proper sunset. Though here I would stop, as this wanton Time holds its breath, tightening its grip in silence.
Her shadow fell off one winter. She no longer bothered to pick it up.
Once upon a time she was just like me, a waifish, half-formed thing sprite and bitter, curdling as her ancient mind –
she whom no one remembered, no one forgot.
Some moons ago her shadow visited her,
carrying with it warm afternoon’s
tacit perfume and one-pound
Europa’s tender thigh.
It was then she understood(,)
those raw dreams she’s lived through
night after night.
Her gaze turned, like skin turned
inside-out; her shadow gave her a mirror and a soul. In them she saw a future
sweet in ebony, and she said,
“I shall desire!”
She saw that it was good, and she went down on her knees, taking the entire length into her mouth. The boy sighed;
hummingbirds traversed overhead leaving long traces of krrr~,
bicycle wheels sped down a hill.
Then she said, “I am her who was named,” and trembled to hark.
Her lover whispered her name, again and again. And she saw that it was good.
Shame had bathed her,
and she finally learned to dab the rouge onto its lips,
and wear it around her honey-coloured shoulders.
Her name bore shame;
her dreams bore shame;
the fluttering hem
of her skirt bore shame.
She stood in rain,
bare feet growing roots in mud.
She saw that it was good.
“I am mortal,” she said.
She no longer faced me. Instead
she had married me.
Taking me by the hand, I emerged above the skin, possessing every organ of this body.
Pain more acute. Pleasure abiding.
Life, once felt, pungent as earth.
Nymphs born of foams,
a woman born of the unbearable weight.
I took a blood-apple that
poisoned me with Time’s
sorrow and contempt.
And I saw that it was very good.
frost bruised red.
Good fortune touched
and pierced through the speartips
of mountain mahogany.
Sunset, pure and dewy, shuffled quietly into my
Spell of pet-flame,
huqqa smoke a whirling velvet
of spiced currant.
Shadow and I
tangoed to the song of wine.
Stain of the last rose,
ripened heat in oiled sweat.
lithe and wild,
dark as Dead Sea and
swaying to my kiss.
Time so wanton that it expanded lustfully,
consuming our last dance,
my last dance.
I saw that it was good, too good,
and I shuddered.
One winter morning my shadow fell off. And it was so. I no longer bothered to pick it up.
Copyright © 2014 Mu-Xuan Lin. All rights reserved.