By | 1 August 2021

In time we will escape the citadel.
In time comes the white outline set of an
overlay from the bottom up,
in time drapery over the doorway
firing, squeezing the possibility
of love into pulp,
the view to certain boons becoming clear;
the bluff will pass.
The young prince chooses violence,
surveys his kingdom
all at once
and chooses to instigate
wine and former surrogacy.
The young prince finds that home
communicates the site of the wound,
(in comedic, ever-spiralling
There is the pageboy again
greeting you as you emerge.
There is the blowout as you challenge
familial ends.
The young prince resists the prophecies both of Freud and
Persephone, Antigone, rejecting frauds – death to any other
I too choose to run, sometimes with ease, jealousy, or availability,
sometimes not; away,
veering from discomfort, of “knowing”, that once separate energy is unspooling,
it collects its own conscience,
though still not ergonomic. To turn and face the gates of Tartarus, again,
endlessly, maybe? or Louise Bourgeois saying “I have been
to hell and back, and let me tell you,
it was wonderful” and Caroline Polachek,
“this is gonna be torture
before it’s sublime,”
or the culmination of a year, the growth
that comes from tears, and a movement
taking place in the mid-section,
the spilling of blood as
the Gorgon decides its uses,
or was this planned?
How tragic, to just
be a spinning top.
A father pins you down by force,
the other pins you down with grace.
or Oprah saying “the vultures are waiting to
pick your bones,” or never catching a glimpse
of something inside.

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