melancholy

A Poem For Wild Women Who Wear Their Hearts Like Hurricanes

Photography by Guy Bourdin

Photography by Guy Bourdin

She’s a web, she’s a riddle,
a tornado turning
drilling through my soul
a flame burning
devouring the cold
and the darkness like a black hole.

When the world conjures another horror-show,
she’s a labyrinth to get lost in
a maze of mirrors full of tender notes
all sweet breath and ravishing gentleness.

She’s a veil of mist floating across a serene loch at dusk
wandering like a ghost
or a Saharan sun cremating tropical forests
scorching polar continents
Northern Lights crowning a mountain suddenly risen
from the depths of the Mediterranean.

She’s a single teardrop, or two perhaps,
glistening like morning dew
or perhaps it’s drool
more valuable than pink diamonds or molten gold.

She’s the flash of a smile swallowed by a dancing crowd
searched for, longed for, forever lost
a smile lasting forever in the vault where memory’s stored –
that faculty where dead things come to life
unreal beings can be realized and
imaginary lands made of flesh and clay and blood and sweat
gems and jewels, mud and wood and flowers and bodily juices
emerge from the shade of sleepless nights to bask in endless days.

She’s the world cracking open between my feet
yawning like the jaws of some galactic, apocalyptic beast
and her roar is the glory of the entire universe
and the utter terror echoing inside man’s cavernous heart
this still-beating heart.

She’s the ravenous goddess of my headboard
a salacious saint writhing on bloodied sheets
the queen I live for whose claws can slay
even death and all other forms of misery.
The doom of princes and the glory
of lonely men
in the gutter singing in the hour before dawn
to vanished women
the most majestic songs ever known.

Submitted to ArtParasites by Stephen Fox