Death Is A Jealous Wife

speaking_a_dead_language_by_super_chi-d4j7v8q

*Image found HERE


Death is a jealous wife

Take everything from me.
Take the cellophane cynosures
you stringed around my wrists,
take your clothes, your shed fur,
the lip meat you autographed,
but for the love of all that’s buried holy
don’t take Latin.
Wrap them in linen hyacinths
and take them to Paris;
praise their bodies,
but I am your magna carta;
leave the dead to the dead.

They can be girls, woman, young;
a goddess, a priestess, lover, mistress,
but never puella you kissed first, left first,
don’t you dare!
Make them the windows of your church, go ahead,
caress them into pillars for your temples,
share that heart of yours
until
this city is nothing but an enormous poppy field,
make them tea and buy them jewels, chart them the stars,
but when they fall asleep on your shoulders,
bloating from love,
only I am your omni. Your nemo that defines
where you will eternally belong.

Wish it all you like yet you lost
innocence
to this dalliance,
take them to my street,
color them my colors,
teach them my words,
butcher the elision
until blue speaks red,
chestnuts leak strawberry blonde,
cherries taste flesh,
but don’t prod the decades of this eternity,
don’t tempt my rigor mortis with their angens vitae.
I am the bruised halcyon of your every summer,
the penitent ghost, ignis mare;
your saliva – aspergillum,
the ichor of dreams.
Your breath the tricking elderberry.
You brood how mellifluous
they would succumb
if their breasts danced to
lux,
nox,
nuptiae;
you forget.
The darkness sucks the flowers ’till they wilt,
Abyssus abyssum invocat,
leave me, leave me for good
and don’t summon me
through their dirty mouth!

It is the dirt of my coffin –
the color of your eyes.
If I yell :”Carpe!”,
you embrace.
If you say :”Caritas!”,
I am vacant, until you are fed.
Let them fling
fervor, amore, amour,
let them have their earthly dialect!
The dead language is mine,
my pack luporum, my autumnus aeternum,
my vesper skin.
The living should not call you
as the dead do,
as I do.
Flame, infection, child,
dilexit.

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~ by Oloriel on June 22, 2015.

12 Responses to “Death Is A Jealous Wife”

  1. A timely post for me! Thank you darling!
    You are a very wonderful writer!

    • You are in my thoughts since I found out, it is rude to say, but I hope the pain is slowly, slowly fading, and beautiful memories are taking its place :/

  2. Hell hath no fury… An excellent description on the passion and anger mixed.. a dangerous road to go for both.

  3. Sigh. I love it. Every single bit of it, every image, every invocation, every Latin phrase.
    Reading your reply to Bjorn’s comment, I would say that we do crave it so. It is traversed upon, it is wound around our fates after all.
    “I am the bruised halcyon of your every summer,/the penitent ghost, ignis mare;/your saliva – aspergillum,/the ichor of dreams.”: Wow.

    • Thank you, HA! I could not agree more about what you said about our cravings, since I also said it in the first place, but it does make me wonder how and why is it so, why is it such a tingling enigma that we have to be so dual.
      I am still looking forward to hearing from you about that co-write. I hope life is treating you well!

  4. Adore

  5. Ma sjajno!

  6. What an excellent poem… You totally caught the core of Jealousy here… So raw and powerful… Great share… Best wishes. Aquileana 😀

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