Come to me singing, with pipes and drums, of mysterious moons and secret souls that live in the babbling brook. Come swaying hips
And breasts, with chimes jingling from belt and ankles. To wave your hands and weave tales into a starry feastday tablecloth.
At the dawn, sing me born of births, of brothers grappling at each other’s feet and enviously vying for the love of a deaf god.
At the death of day sing me graved of a man who pulled back on his mortal coil for another day to play his part in parlour tricks
Hanging notes for the creak of rope that held the neck of a convenient traitor, on coins plopped into the piss puddle at his feet.
Come with your scar raised skin, your patterned flesh, earrings dancing from your lobes. Come bedecked in tears and thunder clouds
Hair like flame, corn silk or moonless black and chant of maidens drowned at sea and dragons slain in the heat of a misspent kiss.
Every word, every gesture, every ringing tone, for I am hunger without end. A well for all the ways we have learned to tell.
The story of ourselves.
(tweeted 02/12/2010 9:30 GMT)
Leave a Reply