From Dusk Till Dawn, 2017

January 11, 2017 11:58 am Published by
From Dusk Till Dawn
(written in response to my encounter with the sculpture ‘An Athlete Wrestling with a Python’ by Frederic Leighton) 

It’s Dusk.
I can’t sleep.
For I am a nocturnal creature,
An earth spirit.

The bed is empty,
And you’re not here,
So I leave.       At once.           For Him.          Mon Paramour.

He’s a fine specimen,
All muscle, no flesh,
Just hard.
Rock.  Hard.
My very own Charles Atlas,
In constant tension since 1830,
He’s effortless,
He’s dynamite,
He’s mine.
All mine.

Wavesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss of hair,
Scrollsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss of scales,
Curvesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss of torsos,
form hypnotic hisses,
that pull me under.

He’s poison.

He grabs my neck,
And crushes my flesh,
In a cold, distant embrace.
Resistance is futile,
As I am weak…
Oh very weak,

“ Let me be your snakeskin clutch bag!
Hold me tight and never let me go!
Squeeze me,
Throttle me,
Take me to the edge and back.
I’m yours tonight.
All yours.”

Oh the pain!
Over and over,
Like a taser straight to the jugular.
You hold,
I’m held,

“But why do you recoil…
Does the danger not arouse you?
Do I repulse you?
Do I make you squirm?
Come closer,
Even closer,
Into my coils,
hip to hip,
genital to cloaca,
let me drink from the glands in your armpits,
as I refuse to rest,
Until I have feasted”

I see red,
I feel fire,
Swivel. Turn.
Swivel. Turn.
Slow, Slow, Quick, Slow.
Slow, Slow, Quick, Slow.
Together. Apart.
Together. Apart.
Turn. Turn. Stop.
Death Drop.

My milky eyes,
My drained heart,
My empty lung.
Left struggling, surviving,
Forever seeking, striving,
Sliding down,
Like a scrawny feather boa,
Releasing the hiss of death at your feet.

It’s Dawn.
I’m back in bed,
It’s still empty,
And you’re not here.