Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Caterpillar Empress

Caterpillar Empress, she wears her jewels
And she moves in voices that haunt the city
on the other side of her mirror
There’s another mirror within
And the lonely and the blind, they look at her
when the world tucks its head within her soft belly
and weeps in fond flows of silence
She is the Caterpillar Empress
She wears a million moonstruck shoes
And I marvel at her wisdom
And I don’t seek for the volcanoes in her body.

But there’s yet another mirror
It shines blue when ghosts come out
And chain their hearts to her form
And then the vision the viewer and the viewed
find out their crypts
and become one
And maybe the world weeps a bit too
Or maybe it doesn’t
But how does that matter?

She rains her love on turtles of time
as she struts along the canvas of our hidden, empire
standing, often, between the seasons of want and rain
when eyes touch, like petals, her wisdom
the sky and earth
dancing between the nerves and mist
circled by the southern breeze
to carry her wisdom from star to star
And thus, I roam.
As these proud centuries of famine and machine
ravage the clocks and gasp, amazed
at these tiny endless quests.

Caterpillar Empress rises through time
like Venus through the waters of love
and fishes make love and birds of the heart – stabbed by the hunters
of dream and vice – they chirp a bit, or maybe they don’t
my mind is my body now
and her body is her mind
And thus, our whispers dot the humanly nights of this world.
No one knows where her palace lies
No one will hear the shrieks of the last bird when it dies
No one will see the last star blanking out.
Thus, she hides her bullets
from the monsters of kindness who adore her face and
make love to her all day and all night
till the new exodus
and civilizations of sunset as they usher
new blue rose of mind. (Whose mind?)

Meanwhile, Doctor Love, he moves from town to town
in his withered brown coat
and with his empty black suitcase
where cold centuries paint dark faces
and hot centuries paint bright faces
He’s an angel too, though no one has told him that
but when it rains on him sad music plays from the skies
because the lonely and the damned, as they
wither in prisons of gold and dust,
they cling to his coat, and the Empress knows it
too. And we all know it, though no one
has ever told us about it.

And then in another beautiful dream,
they meet and they kiss, the Doctor and the Empress
they really do
A flying saucer wheezes past the ears from other sides of windows
and flies fly in from faraway shores of twilight
carrying news from lost sailors – they say they are well
they have found a lost kingdom on the other side
and there are purple faces of green locust-men
and blue faces of red women of olive and thirst
She is a real empress now,
she takes off her sapphire ring
and puts it in a glass of blue wine
He is a real Doctor now –
he takes off his shoes
and flings out the history of the world that lay buried there thus far
A little songbird with curved maroon beaks
picks up this tune,
makes pancakes out of it
and carries them to the blind gods of machine
the haters of the heart fall silent in this hour.
They are real Haters now.

But then, rude sunlight takes you to another lost city
that lies limp by the empty sea – all gray and stunned to ceaseless silence
like broken violins by broken automobiles;
Rabbits freeze in foglight and stay frozen till forever begins & ends
the silk and honey are dead and gone:
(you know all about it –
that perfect cadence  of forsaken umbrellas on cobwebbed penthouses
the dark vines of deliria and disenchantment
that crawl up your chest to choke your throat,
and then the river she hides her aura, homeless,
to count the deaths and hopes of yearning,
there’s salt and stone-chips in your pockets now, Phlebas
you look out for your Empress, you call out for your Doctor
You stand before the stern judges of rock and lacklove –
you don’t find her there, and he’s roaming in the wild zones of ancient dusk
looking for those billion little pieces that never were
you hear that huge pink baby crying in the woods,
she’s crying because everything burns and thus everything’s false;
but you don’t see her, you see a dying cat instead
The cat has lived enough
Thus, the hunters are on prowl yet again

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