The Ridiculum
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by Graowf

Their movement is clockwork,
their skin wrought in plastic,
with spirits aseptic
and minds which unnaturally, twitchingly jerk.

My flesh is warm liquid,
my tears of moist fire,
my passions a pyre.
A furnace I burn where desire is hid.

My musk of wet earth
and jasmine and rain,
a sugarplum pain,
a sweat of foam gouging and goring the firth.

The room is my space,
my desire the air,
I, consummate there:
the man and the animal kiss fang to face.

Then *they* mount the threshold,
all haughty and empty.
My space of dark beauty
they strip and they bare and then chill with their cold,

with blade to the marrow.
The fine flesh they pierce,
quiet, condemningly fierce,
wielding unwitted the sword and the arrow.

With silence they screech,
with dull dreams they blaze,
their clear vision, haze
that binds their dim muses to beauty impeach.

My animal, turning,
it runs from the place,
as the man hides his face.
The dark now seems silly; the fire, shame burning.

Oh animal, animal!
Flee through the greenwood!
Tear from your humanhood,
from the horror of unnatural, passionless Fall!


(December 2014)