Venus in Scorpio (VII, 12°26′)

“I’m a girl who lost her reputation and never missed it[.]”

— Mae West (Mae West, quoted by Paul F. Boller, Jr. and Ronald L. Davis in “Chapter 18[.] Comedy” of “[Part] III. The Playbill” in their Hollywood Anecdotes, published at New York by Ballantine Books in 1988; page 212.)

“She was supposed to look drunk and she did, but not with alcohol. She lay stretched out on the divan with her arms and legs spread, as though welcoming a lover, and her lips were parted in a heavy, sullen smile. She was supposed to look inviting, but the invitation wasn’t to pleasure.”

— Nathanael West (Nathanael West, “[Chapter] 3,” in The Day of the Locust of The Day of the Locust and Miss Lonelyhearts, published at London by Vintage Books in 2012; pages 14–15.)

“I am touching
the photograph of my last seduction. It is as slick
as a magazine page, as dark as a street
darkened by rain.”

— Ama Codjoe (Ama Codjoe, “On Seeing and Being Seen,” Stanza 1, Lines 10–13, in “[Part] I.” of Bluest Nude, published at Minneapolis, Minnesota by Milkweed Editions in 2022; page 4.)

                         i.

I’m tempted to use
as many exclamation points
as there are days
I’ve known and loved
you, but—heaven forbid—

I’ll keep the numerology
trinitarian and my Catholicism
fallen. On my knees
and guilty. Keeping heaven
waiting, lord knows let’s

keep on pacing the
same pavement, double-taking in
a crossing the way
these lines ley. At
once ribald, tale-telling, heartless,

and all mystical as
we fall from grace
now that we’ve novitiated,
let’s make our vows
and take the veil,

admit to its omission
heretofore, confessing now that,
together, Babe, this is
it, we’re both writers
who handle truths that

can’t be held by
death. Complaining of liberties
taken, taking no shit
anymore, welcoming, for once,
that no one can

                         ii.

handle—or ever will
deserve—us. No, Sir.
Suburban-subversive, short a soul,
I’d sell my virginity
to save the economy.

Whore my Self the
whole world. If you
can’t avoid the industry
entirely, then form alliances,
choose your own name,

pick up some disturbing
beliefs, and follow me
through a trench of
warm honey. Embracing the
erasure of authenticity, biography

demanding more performative origin
stories than mere perfunctory
dates, immortality’s potential necessitates
legend, mythology with enough
bite it invites being

soundbitten. Save your bitterness,
instead, for your third
act’s candour when your
ghostwritten memoir marks your
return to an audience

of turned backs expecting
you to stab. The
oppressive intimacy of technology
enables cult-ready cultivation of
a curated personality forever

                         iii.

and always in the
now. (Never stoop so
low to allowing strangers
to be in the
know!) My tongue a

soft fury of velvet
aromatics of rot stalk,
humour me the resurrection
of my buried plot.
Listen to me cheapen

philosophy by talking shop:
entertainment taking over art
means it gets easier
to show your ass
than your feelings, to

die in the public
eye is to drown
in the speed of
light, always a camera
nearby to capture your

fading from sight, and
it might happen tonight.
(It might happen tonight!)
But, when did it
begin? Why I’m always

too loose to refuse?
Venus in Scorpio, blame
it on my chart,
this trajectory of my
heart toward (y)our abuse.