Poem: Cures

By
Deirdre Maultsaid

//Angel, darling, you have such wakefulness, pacing with your burnt tallow, passing another anniversary watching the clock hands stroke away meaning. I know: all shall perish. Look. There is the shadow of God, the disenchantment of the world, the sharp tools of those who wish to be amputated, to exalt their fake sick and sick love, to tell the stories that end one way. Don’t cry until your heart breaks. Down on your knees disease wants you; the thick poisoned green thorns, the black maw, the spreading red sponge of its truth. There are no songs with its name. It is a profane day when you lie there prodded by the unknowing. Never forget: nothing else so enthralls but the possibility of orgasm. In Barcelona, find the Museu of de L’ Erotica, for there is your saviour—an 8-foot tall sandalwood copy of a Thai phallic amulet. Hug it. Imagine the sacred pulse. Sex is the holy warrior against the unnameable. Find him. Tell him to lean in. Beg him to press his thigh there and cure you. Offer one perfect breast, your wings, all that you have, your face, a testament.
Audio here: http://deirdremaultsaid.com/audio-deirdre-maultsaid-author-vancouver/

Angel with dove
Photo by Chris Schmidt

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