Chimeras and archetypes, iconic interlopers, fantasies,
projections of our most ferociously unspeakable desires
burning in inevitable fires of resistance to them: there,
we think, for clarity. Some loves we only know through
others’ hatred of them: opposites define, it’s often said.
But oh, to find these things in bed, as in a dream of them
or as an awkward actuality, a “real” attempt to pummel
Word until it’s turned into complaining Flesh, battered
and unbeautiful at best. Our synapses seem fixed on
these depictions of ambivalence, perhaps as some believe
because of a divine decree that an imbalance be redressed –
that blessings cannot come except through war which pits
each able virtue we have got against the hot destruction
of our fiercest lusts and truest terrors. If so, it all ends
badly – riddled with ineptitude and error which do little
but provide a tangled super-imposition of meticulously
outlined and ridiculously meaningless extrusions,
streaming out like blind, benignly amiable snakes into
a chaos which, when we imagine we are able to regard it
from a distance far enough above to get the larger view,
seems overall to be a pleasant symmetry, a composition
wherein nothing is awry. To which, my God, if such there be,
is this your answer to our Why? Flatulently uninventive
and haphazard, bored: face it, Lord. I mean, Oh fucking my.
Unless, my silly un-ingenious and imperfect God, you’re us.
And we keep making all this frantic fuss because we like it.
It’s like a punch. Some say it isn’t punch until you spike it.