Nights with the Ocean

ocean-at-night

*Image found HERE

Nights with the Ocean

Sister Darkness,
I fear my beloved fears me,
I am not sweet, I rot like no other,
a granary of cobwebs and spiders,
a body of water anything and anywhere,
but none to drink,
he is wet lace across the misery of my bones
which I do not arrange in triangles,
no above and bellow,
a sisterhood of deep, dark holes
and strident veins.

I can hear the women talking,
echoing throughout my voids,
they toil away in their flowery blouses,
they wander away and return through such patterns,
their chests silent, never cackling,
pilling up years;
secretly they stockpile pomegranates in their hips,
I see them not descent.
I hear them rosy like aftersex poetry,
I hear them brimming like milk on a cold January morning,
I hear they fix the world
and Death does not notice.
They turn dead roses into poultice,
I see them cry, I see gold,
gold sprouting in their tears,
so much gold a digger could retire after minutes;
they talk and talk and talk
about him,
and sing and lure and hum
around him
and raise children from the stains of coffee grounds
and whisper and gossip and whistle
like answering machines,
they hiss for the bliss, like hounds
under the clouds, while they wait for the bus;
they would slit his throat with a train,
as sunlight dolls with bone dust on their lips
and give him cherubs for each pair of hands
that he would grow,
and desecrate the solace in the city of sand,
those concrete prophets of an invisible man
that convince the day into existing
and talk, and talk, and understand;
and talk, and talk, and wail in joy,
their heads sunk inside his chest
like it’s a cathedral,
smelling like jasmine and jewels and takeout steak,
they talk, and talk and ring like bells,
and every new love will last as much as the cell,
as much as the last buried body,
in the music, in the lie, in the bed, on the street –
in each arm of Sun’s tireless fleet,
in much more than me.

But what do they know
about the sea?

It does not talk, it does not debate,
about how long a skirt, or pain, can be,
it screams for dogs of light begone,
it screams they are not needed here,
where nothing is soft and puffy
and gentle serene,
or a dazzling , unforgiving dream
of amputated wildness.
It does not trade, it does not serenade
sadness for second hand lightness,
mistress for murdered darkness.
It does not talk, nor circle or bemuse
like porphyry, slipping its tongue into abstinence
It seeks to swallow, split through, find a use
for marshmallow boats, it gurgles silk
to wrap the wounds it nibbles with
salt and twilight and Moon,
it towers above love,
it seeks, it destroys,
its chronically allergic to the noise
of beauty that does not know
the gurgle of its gut,
it does not talk, and talk and talk and murmur
last thoughts of Aphrodite
before she drowned,
it does not leave one sate and hollow,
innocent and guilty of life,
to the seashell’s meat its waves-like knives
carve rock-a-by-babies for moss covered ladies and soothe the night.
It does not lust like wound up toys
and curves like gifts,

it silences, and silences and rests with a cerulean voice,
it takes his messy hair
into the coldness of its underwater lair,
it dies
whenever it must.

I will lower down a glass atop his body while he sleeps,
I will descend to it my ugly, darkened ear,
I will listen for the dead ocean of his blood,
I will listen, no matter what I hear;
Sister Darkness, do you think
that that’s enough?

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~ by Oloriel on August 26, 2016.

18 Responses to “Nights with the Ocean”

  1. Superb, as always.

  2. Yes. I think that’s enough. Just the right approachless approach.

    “But what do they know
    about the sea?

    It does not talk, it does not debate,
    about how long a skirt, or pain, can be”

    “It does not trade, it does not serenade
    sadness for second hand lightness”

    “its chronically allergic to the noise
    of beauty that does not know
    the gurgle of its gut”

    “It does not lust like wound up toys”

    “it silences, and silences and rests with a cerulean voice,
    it takes his messy hair
    into the coldness of its underwater lair,
    it dies
    whenever it must”

    Exactly.

    • Thank you very much for your visit and comment, Shawna!
      I think nowadays we tailor too much, and put falling in love to the side of what we think we want and need.

  3. Oh I do like that second stanza about those ladies… how well you portrayed the feeling of being outside, of being set apart… this tie so well into that the beginning and then the end… what do they know about the sea… yes.

  4. he is wet lace across the misery of my bones… as with every sentiment expressed is beautiful O. ❤️

  5. Biting & beautiful! TY, Oloriel!

  6. I am seeing you in a supermarket, store, bombarded with hateful looks when I read this, in the city, bus, city hall, their eyes and jabbing words…it hurts to see it like this…
    2nd part feels like its about The Princess and your fear, jealousy when he is in the city with them

    • Nah, this was made from an overheard conversation. 3 rude ladies were standing on the bus station and gossiping about their 4th friend and how her husband should not be with her, like, What does she see in her bla bla. I wrote from my imagined perspective of the 4th women, imagining she could hear the comments of her “friends”.

      • So I was close!

      • Yes! It was just an overpowering scene. I wanted to punch those 3 “nice ladies”. Or dare them to tell that to the face of their friend, not behind back. I was also wondering, if they hate her, why are they even friends???

      • World is like that, cynical, hypocritical…they need to talk about someone to take of their mind from their own shitty life..

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