Gathering Evidence with My Heart in Your Mouth

To write a thing is to bring it into being, and to speak it is to make it happen.


          Mirror of my grief going down on

me like a chthonic deity,
a man on a quest, not a mission—
a blistering sun walking into
a myth thick with shadow—vanishes
without showing me his showering,
before shattering like a bowl. All

fragments aglow with burn out turn out
the red staining the glass with its coat.
Shards potter the field of my vision,
patter onto its viscous shield more
splattered lather than an imagined
finishing filthying further an

ending to such an underwhelming
fantasy we both wonder why did
we both even bother? Gathering
evidence with my heart in your mouth,
perhaps you can figure it out, this
pervert’s passion of mine for pouring

forth what no other kind of author
would hazard to offer. If you can,
forgive my giving these misadventures
too much attention. Though I am
so much more than only a man, in
the warmth of a hand one’s pen lessens

many of the mere mortal inhibitions
and loosens, once and for all,
the resolve of those portals holding
off the force of the divine will by
which every talisman’s seal is
consecrated and dissolved. What I


spill permits no pleasantry, even
still, commits no offence greater than
being true to itself, which is in
some sense testament to a potent
integrity few ever honour
let alone reveal. Life’s great object

is sensation, to feel we exist
even if in pain, or perhaps, in
the heat of lust—itself only one,
if not the oldest, of several
coping mechanisms by which one deals
with such disappointments as being

so loved yet so lonely. In your mouth
my discontent sounds like poetry,
every conquest I chronicle
a little less reprehensible
and nearly almost endearing as
charming old Don Quixote’s. Not to

apotheose my verbosity
as some simulacrum worthy of
comparison with Cervantes, but
perhaps by mentioning my men I
am, in fact, advantaged. Committing
to strangers’ lips what filth my own have

kissed might actually cleanse them of
what emptiness within sentences
me to a tempestuous torment
of my own imprisonment. Getting
off often enough numbs one to being
caught up in the romance of being

          sought, so words become what I want.

1Patrick Dunn, “Chapter 7: Thaumaturgy” in The Practical Art of Divine Magic: Contemporary & Ancient Techniques of Theurgy, published at Woodbury, Minnesota by Llewellyn Worldwide in 2015; page 268.