Lilac Wine :: a warzone towards haiku

July 14, 2013

ritual for a quarry

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 11:35 am

someone at pantheacon said,
‘you wouldn’t have a ritual in a quarry’
but i know a ritual
for a quarry.
as at least a quarter of women

a place plundered and turned
from place to thing.
genius loci quantified in pounds and spatial measurements
dug up, hollowed and claimed
by men in cars.

stones taken. fine marble, rough and right in the earth, now taken
on a countertop. i mean, for a countertop.

the ritual says, you are not hollow.
your stone was stripped off
leaving not emptiness but
air. light. space. dust.
the stone beneath.
these are your tools now
if you will claim them.

bring a stone. when you leave, leave it behind.

March 21, 2011

An exorcism

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 1:11 pm

Ghost. There is a girl. There was a marriage. They are ghosts.

She had the textural perfection of a phantom, even in flesh. Hard gems shone on her fingernails, and her soft skin was traced in Buddhist scripture. There is no fire like lust…

She was so pretty.

She made her husband a sandwich every day. My husband thinks you’re gorgeous, were her first words to me. I do not hold a candle to you, I replied. We had no chemistry. We came only as close as touched tongue-tips wrapped around her husband’s cock, or brushed fingers as we held him though the night.

Her bearing was enviable. I saw a video-camera ignore a roomful of salaciousness to focus on her, as she carried a glass of water across the room. That’s my girl, her husband said with pleasure and pride.

She cooked risotto and strawberry granita when I joined them at the table. She hit me when he asked, politely criticized my cunnilingus, and gave me a key to their loft. She seemed exemplary in all ways.

And he texts me, last autumn: we’ve decided to end it…

My brother became room-mate and partner, partner in crime, the man who asks how my day was each evening. It is very nice. His love is expressed sincerely and viscerally and thoughtfully.

Still I envy phantoms seen at enough distance to idealize, yet close-up enough to be taken by glances of them. I covet, senselessly, the man of faith who loved her; who was still possessed of unquiet passion.

I shift between beauty and clumsiness. I rarely cook. I frequently am at odds to the world. My nails are always chipped and broken. Though I’d like to be gracious, I am possessive and easily stung.

I am wise and beautiful and tough. I am earnest. I can hold my own, though when I doubt myself, I cannot hold anything.

Time runs along a knife-edge. I have very little faith in the best laid plans of mice and men, but I run with it.

February 3, 2011


Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 7:52 pm

Three names whispered in the darkness, woven into an incantation by repetition. She tastes like coffee across my tongue. His face is freckled, smiling.

Do you have a condom…?

An incantation of names, while one wall away the world shatters.

January 21, 2011


Filed under: Text — Tags: , , — Lilac @ 2:16 pm

There’s a photograph of you, forearms bound in a double column of hemp. It’s my first tie. The sunlight streams onto your hands, illuminating the fingertips soft white. Your wedding ring gleams with a diamond of sun.

There’s an image of us in the fractured mirror. Licking my come from your wedding ring will fuck with my head forever…

There’s a photograph of you, receiving her at the base of the stairs. She is on the lowest step, navel exposed in a casual shirt. You’re wearing a kilt. It’s summer.

There’s a photograph of you kissing her in the kitchen. It’s late afternoon. You’re almost silhouettes, grey; I can see the outline of your tongue, her hair, your shirt-pockets.

Leather, you said, and rope. But rings of metal are the everyday fetish object, a commonplace sick-puppy perversity of ownership and oath. They’re a fantasy of bondage. And it’s the sickest fantasy I have: sicker than drinking your piss, being beaten bloody, being pierced by five hundred feathered needles.

Love is the best edgeplay there is.

November 30, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 9:00 am

Glitter, embers, mist and shining mica. I and the city shed a thousand drops of light, and in the underground I take your hand and you take me home.

You drive like the heartbroken.
I drive like a private investigator.

Share sorrow, brother. You kiss my chest and it bursts into flame.

August 14, 2010

Sweet Adeline

Filed under: Text — Tags: , — Lilac @ 1:00 pm

The length of sweet Adeline, which for an idyll of summer weeks connected the houses of two men I love, has dissolved at each end. It was 11 minutes down Adeline St; the span of two songs.

The sadness is only secondhand for me. So much falls apart; I am sorry to see it, though my loved ones handle it with great strength.

August 13, 2010

Indigo & blue

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 7:06 pm

If there is a horizontal line, that runs through the map off your body     (in Tori Amos’ voice)

There’s a diagonal line on the painting, between us, crossed by my whip     (in yours)

August 4, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 1:17 pm

The bouncer asks, Where’s your usual accompaniment?

I look at him, expression transparent. He gives me a hug.

August 1, 2010

The Bone Room

Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 3:01 pm

Everything’s in flux, so I’m glad I threw all my resources into joy; and for some shining moments won. In suspenders and cologne and skirts, only wanting the night to take me in, I won. I won admission and understanding… But the peril in chasing your desires is that you find them, and once concrete, they are subject to real conflict and loss. This is the future, sings Dune. The future is now.

Linger in the arms of your lovers or they’ll be skulls and ashes before you’re done. Ephemera: tea heat, crystal blue eyes, shed porcupine quills and pinned butterflies. We only have a little while.

Midhir, dog-tags warning of famine, says Stay.

July 31, 2010


Filed under: Text — Tags: — Lilac @ 10:36 am

Ex-lovers return items. Apples to Apples, dust to dust.

We breathe evenly in a house in flux: Das nicht zu Hause sein.

What is the price of two hands?
A kiss…

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