Bonding with Muriel
When exactly did you lose your Soul?
Chewing the burnt end of Cherub Root waters her eyes
Sitting cross legged, knee to knee, she spoke of her legacy
You touch her breast pocket and your fingers find no purchase
She exhales and lets out a low laugh, a smile through yellowed teeth
She told you your hair was ablaze with Asher’s fire, but you knew
The Gods wouldn’t burn your memories without reason
The root plays its restless song and for the moment, you understand Muriel
Lucky for you, the gods do not approve human sacrifice
You sprawl in a bed strewn with paper dolls and daisy chains
Dreaming of salt water, wishing for that crosswalk moment
Like navigating a quicksand Moat, slow progress across
Sinking until your lungs begin to collapse and you encounter him
The glitter of his purpose an aura, redolent like a bachelor’s aftershave
An elixir, eternal youth promised, or joy, if only you can last this bog
Why exactly did you paint your Heart?
When you ask him of her intentions he shrugs and leaves your head hollow
She picks all moments, not just the ones you ask for
And you must hope to all hell that her womb doesn’t quicken
For progeny born of a union consecrated on the root becomes his child
Beautiful in scope but hideous where justice and compassion are concerned
Have you learned nothing from your childhood tales of beasts and banalities
She is Muriel and you are a faded memory before her horse rides south
It’s hard to know what will work if we are to learn to cross this bridge
Sitting Indian-style, your earth-earring warms your celestial lobe
And you imagine all the days you have ahead together, a Kodak moment
Slide-show to come, but first, the span. You have no fucking idea
You squeeze your eyes until the red behind your lids glows fire-wise
Like the gash on your breast, the one you keep pasted with gauze, never looking
Avoiding the service, it’s better to remember his mouth on your heart
When exactly do you expect to Return?
Mourning never ends as yesterday fades into a year later, and then masked
As night it’s the moment you always anticipated, but wait, where’s your hovercraft
And how are you supposed to acclimate when you recall what it’s like to tumble
Through the apex of a reflective Triangle on the bumper of a horse-drawn buggy
Sugarcubes wait in a saucer for your coffee as you bum a smoke from that farmer
Beard but no moustache, tall hat but bare hands chapped from shoveling
Your memories into the incinerator and man, you gotta locate an analyst pronto
“Muriel?”
“Yes, my light?”
“Is that scar on your cheek from me?”
“No, my light.”
“Can I touch it?”
“Leave it be, it exists only as a reminder of your birth.”
“Why my birth?”
“It’s not my scar, it’s a bastard. You, my light, are a bastard.”
“Yeah.”
The soil of an inherited future is hard to scrape from the sole of one’s shoe
But Muriel had a stick and could wash free any sediment with a glance and a sigh
He would try and stop her, shouting that Gods don’t pour watered down drinks
On Monday, she would kill him with his own words and take you as a prize
It was your dream but it always caught in the back of your throat with a click
Forever was as much sin as savior in those days, days with Muriel
Always with your protestations, Muriel this and Muriel that
A pipedream, all it ever was
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| Felix Vallotton, The Dordogne with Carrenac, 1925 |