Thursday, July 5, 2012

To Master With Regret


Tonight I write to you

[The rains have formed fireworks on the roof.
The soothing shadows
of fat raindrops
and addictive love
loom in the windows.

I am a textbook page,
imprinted upon your slender body.
Your mouth hung open then.

You were lying broken,
from all the lying.
You whispered secrets,
you wanted to forget
in my ear]


How can you live with yourself master?
How can you?

Do you know that I have been hunting?
Hunting for you across these mountains?

I have been hunting for your pages of poetry
in the streets
for your Navajo ear-ring in the lupine mischief of boys' ears?
Your voice, full of anger and dreams
You, sitting cross-legged on a stranger's bed.
For your un-made films made of music and people's feet and dumb girls who like to fuck.

I am you.
I have become you.
To know your poisons,
and to know you.
I have become you.
To see what you often told me of,
sitting with your hair soaked in an escapist fantasy.

Your mouth could never hold mine,
Neither could your hands.
But, they hold the sickness of love.
Why master?
Why are you?
The holy whore?
So profane?
So unpure?

You are unpure.
But you were mine.
You can deny the rituals,
You can deny our beds,
You may even deny,
the history of our hands,
sewn together at night.
But your truth, is illusion
and mine is full of truth.
Your words are gone,
but mine are here.

Master, you were sprung forth
from the womb of dementia.
You were born of regrets.
You were born of high tides,
that drown Echoes.
You were born.
And now you have died.

How can you live with yourself master?
How can you?

Tell me of my goose-bumps.
Tell me of loss.
You charted it across my skin.
You signed it with your hands.
You sealed it with your poetry.

But your pictures?
Where are they now?
Where are the colours of your songs,
the scars on your hands?

The old meat in your heart?

I am a piece of the fate-machine.
I am a slave in the scheme of karma.
But i am also a girl,
Who has loved your shades of melancholy,
Who has worshiped your black hair,
Who has plucked your smell,
Who has kissed your cheek,
and breathed on your stomach,
in shyness.

Do those girls,
cry into your shirt?
Do they send you diaries?
Do they go mad for your grief?
Do they kiss you through the computer screen?
And write poetry about your smile?
Do they love you, like I did?

Master I have become a widow.
I see your mind in every mind
I hear your whispers in every mouth
I see your darkness in every being
I am afraid
I am afraid
I am so afraid

I fear my love
for you
I fear my love
with you
I fear my love
of you

You have died
But I have too
I have become the holder of dreams
I have become the holder of rains

It is July,
and it often reminds me of your
gate that skinned my thighs.
The banyan tree,
with its ancient ghosts.
The wet walls,
with their smell of the earth.
Your warm body,
with its,
many fires.
Your darkness,
so cold.

Master, you have corrupted
Master you have undone love
Master you have sent love into therapy,
into suicide,
into starvation,
into derangement,
into paranoia,
into an asylum of the mind.

Mater you have broken love,
With the truth that set it not free,
but falling to the ground.

I am love, master.
I have been love.

How can you live with yourself?
How can you?

But you live with me master.
Even in death you live with me.
You live in the blank spaces,
That have forgotten the light
in my love.

Tonight master,
I write to you-

With regret.