Stalactite Drip

Stars, hide your fires;
Let not light see my black and deep desires.
          —Shakespeare1

                    i.

Sustained by the desire to be sustained,
impossible geometry
comes down on me, heavy as an
unsolicited epiphany, drips

without apology these things any-
body else better equipped to
deal with this would probably just
dismiss as another novelty.

That I need very much to get a grip
is an opinion with which my
troubled head’s not in conflict. It’s
been too long since I desired so much that

curative touch of yours all the kids call
impurity’s crutch, but I know,
empirically, just how much
getting sucked by someone with so pretty

a mouth consoles one whose own is a wound
which never heals. This pussy hole
incontrovertible words pour
out of, more hurtful to those who hear them

than how it feels to unseal the demons
whose fears steer them with the rudder
of my tongue no one’s but your own
can silence. What filth I utter I don’t

necessarily condone—no, sir, no
it’s code enciphering for those
in the know just how tired I am
of having to put on emotions I’ll

                    ii.

otherwise never show the world—no, sir
not unless stirred to go to war.
I argue for what I need, to
be believed, seeking sustenance deep in

every injustice I perceive. Teeth
sinking vampirically through
every crack’s crevice, going
beneath surface, reaching far into its

cavernous heart scars left by someone else
guard, eating of the very crass
meat my pen bleeds for what it needs,
drinking of inspiration when things aren’t

exactly as they should be. Feasting then,
as you are now, on my scraps, my
stalactite dick Pinocchio
knows how hard it gets, scraping the bowl of

your skull as your throat provides passage for
what it drips, swift little gifts of
sweating pearls, a molasses-thick
necklace of syrup drops your hot talent’s

earned you so well. A bountiful meal of
swollen jewels which mirrors the
invisible hell someone so
beautiful and miserable as I

am hides so well. A burdensome load of
molten gold my flesh hoards until
it’s ready to behold, to break
in wearing thin from within its rope’s rich

                    iii.

decadence of which every other
lover’s left envious, stealing
glimpses of my true Self. Mixing
metaphors, intentions, and messages

readying you to impress every
other prisoner Hades’ shade
accepts. Strong of forearm and quick
of wrist, in the hands of that relentless

collector of forbidden flowers we’ll
finally rest. I’ll bless you with
more majesty than any of
them even possesses. Regal, you’ll best

Persephone and her girls the under-
world holds hostage with kisses not
even so sweet as yours, since what
paints your lips whispers without regret or

apology so many volumes more
than anything I scribe, when I’m
wet with honesty, can impart
to those nature abhors. Vacuous and

vapid readers who misperceive passion
as porn, wide-eyed conformists of
outmoded morals whose distant
origins a mind so formidable

as mine can’t afford to waste any more
time trying to decode—no, sir—never
again will another’s weakness
be projected onto me as my sin

          since I’m more than capable of
          committing my own without suggestion.

__________
1William Shakespeare, “Macbeth”, Act I[, Scene] 4, [Lines 50–51], Macbeth in an aside to himself, whilst talking with King Duncan, in Stephen Orgel’s edition of the play, published at New York by Penguin Books in 2016; page 15.