Photo 14-10-2016, 18 13 53

Again that oily feeling of peace
looking at foreign water, an artificial lake
perfect black nibbled by long legged insects
reflecting black light and black branches
black stones and black leaves
all so dark and beautiful. so precise. so false.

I am enchanted, drinking my plum wine
in this minutely cold cup, blue and white
and trancelike, to the touch, exquisite.
Such pleasure, by this black fake perfect lake.
Then eating these tiny fungi, immaculate,
still serenaded by insects with long legs,

who are drunk and happy and generous with me
singing, without feathers, dark and brittle
shiny companions in this secret simulated garden
so precious so glitter so hypnotic so Japan so nightime.
Plum lips, cold from kissing this vase
this tiny miracle of a cup I want to marry, merge into, become.

What body! White and blue and ripe porcelain in my mouth
which searches, touches now a fruit, a sin, a wonder.
A fruit turned into this strange flower that breathes dead in my plate
so dead and enticing. I’ll have her please, yes let me.
What skin what velvet to lick and bite and fall for, what fate
inside this magic, this banquet of miniature marvels

so small so small so dark so black so nightime.
With lake with stones with insects who are ripples
who are stars, diamonds flying and chanting with wings
made of crystals, so fragile so tempting. I want them.
A crunch of their flight in my teeth, soaked in plum wine
and naked fruit and fish, yes, now fish like marble

so pearly, so thick, proud and defenceless in my cage.
Covered in petals, this fish, no mercy, no mess.
Perfect creatures, cut, dissected alive for this moment of pleasure.
I swallow and say thank you. I love your white translucent flesh.
You are so vibrant I think you are dancing.
You seduce my tongue my palate my throat this cavern

inside my body that is now your tomb, your bed your temple.
And the music wails. Such sweet agony from ancient time.
I touch the wet cloth. Perfumed. A civilised gesture to mask this carnage,
this botanical feast this battle
of the senses, of the powers, of the ghosts, of the darkness
of the lake so black so precious so fake.


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