The hour is slim!
This is the tangled time,
the time that heavy
becomes the jaws
for open thighs.
Her tasty flesh renders
the cleft of wet truth.
Persephone can slake,
can shatter my ache,
the serpent earth
lay tangled in ancient ruin.
words Tommy Carroll
i come from a long line of muses.
beauty contests won by bribery
and bravery. i was taught that the
way to a man’s heart is through
the fucking ribcage. there is no time
to play house. the daughter of dimitra,
i’ll take a pomegranate martini and
6 months in hell. you said you had a
nightmare that i would kill you in your
sleep. my darling, i only want to make
your dreams come true.
When I looked upon Persephone
Lying next to the Styx,
My heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds.
I dug them out,
Smuggled them past the spaces
Of my ribcage,
And handed them over.
She swallowed them whole.
They took root in the pit of her stomach
And a branch grew out of her stained mouth,
A fat pomegranate at the end of it.
She plucked it before I could,
Pressed her fingernails into the skin
The juices ran red like the Nile down her wrists
And I felt the twist of a knife
In the center of my chest.
Spring blooming from her throat.
She had left
Before I could wrap my fingers around her sunshine.
In her place
She left only three
She never spoke of sanity
Normal never lost her lips
She thought not much of clarity
Preferring to speak with hips.
She never thought to tell me
How memory was in her hair
It curled and fell like weeping willows
But never felt so fair.
She never wanted to explain
How her footprints left the ground
How she walked the clouds and drank the rain
Why she still looked at me when the sun was with her.
Though she left quietly I still recall
She told me why in her hands
She held me like she was about to fall
And fall she did to lower lands.
In the dream, I am Persephone
in the badlands. A cinnamon girl
standing where the Zephyr sways
sage and coral gullies gasp
for one more drop to drink.
I am plucking pizzicato
with saguaro needles
and prick my fingertips.
Ten split figs
thicker than sap.
In the dream, you are with me
as Hades wearing a Zeppelin tee.
Your mouth opens
lips surround my slick fingers
sliding through the hollow of your breath.
My blood. A nightshade, a moon flower,
Toloache. You drink until you reach
the bedrock of my bones.
The desert is lonesome
now that I am gone
and you are delirium
with blood in your gums.
In the dream, the universe cracks
open like yolk from Cronus’ head.
Night spreads her dark cape
across the sky. Hades among the stars,
thin-hipped muses glittering like Aladdin Sane.
It is night and you are alone
in the badlands. Nothing to soothe
you but sonorous yips by coyotes
howling like Johnny Cash.
Persephone, dearest daughter,
Please preside over the harvest while I'm gone. I'm having a spa day with the girls.
P.S. Don't let any of your underworld gangsta friends in our house. They leave ashes on my Persian rugs.
A drop of moonlight,
A pinch of witch hazel,
The sound of flutes
And the smell of mint.
The coins, candles and incense
Making a metallic heavy scent
The ashes of bones
The wooden stick, the lone skull
The statue of Persephone,
Only one half of the whole.
Sing, drink and rise.
A new day has come,
A day for laughter,
A day for love
A day to live.
September's ploughed earth
sows the rains
it is something like D.H Lawrence's
' The Rainbow',
that you love
the Polish cleaning lady so
my Soul's countryman,
dear poet of the North
for now, Persephone still
walks the earth
fair Kore, soon to descend
to the underworld
back to an aged God in love
were I thus loved by a man
as to become his queen
as to be kidnapped by him
instead, all I have is you,
a woman's love unrequited
for a boy & growing stale
as far off winter calls
like a theatre scene
too much rehearsed
I knew God was dead when you ripped me open,
sliced through like wrapping paper,
stretched me threadbare,
tossed me onto your bed
like threadbare washed out jeans.
The world disappeared behind dirty shutters;
I felt my skin steam beneath your body –
my organs boiled, humid breaths
fogged any contemplation, the air thick
with forced empathy, you touch my
cheek but it means nothing. I feel
They told me monsters weren’t real, but
I saw them in your eyes, and when
we were done, I saw them in mine.
Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, “My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.”