Tuesday, July 17, 2018

The Thing

How do we account for it or her?
All she had to do was stick her nose
outside for the inevitable to occur.
All sentient beings noticed and arose,
became her entourage, adoring
but respectful of her patent need
for space – their hushed imploring
faces silently adhering to a creed
belonging to a faith they’d breathed
in from her like a sacred atmospheric
breeze – which lent new life that seethed
as if into the primal stage of stratospheric
orgasm that sex with god or goddess
is proposed on evidence to be. But what
exactly was she doing to effect this 
deluge of response? Was she shut
or open to the importuning eyes 
that could not not embrace her, whole?
Was her ineluctable divinity, disguise? -
or a bless├Ęd incarnation of the Soul? -
or the divisive dissonant deception 
so inherent in her unplumbed mystery
that human psyches lacked perception
to investigate the sordid history
of this phenomenon of demi-god
whose virtue they began to disbelieve -
this fake, now a likely demon of the sod
not the celestial ether: how could she relieve
their existential agony, assuage 
their ache to be released? She’d spilled her
falsity herself : tainted blood! So in a rage -
deserved? we cannot know - they killed her.
Where or what we wonder is the moral?
What are we here or there for?
(Oh, make it soar all vast and choral!)
You’re the thing that you prepare for.

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