My Lover

my lover.

she knows just how to please me ...

in love and lust.

I am under her spell ...

((neurotic despot of the holy wurd))

I workship daily.

in sacramental sex seances

that last a day.

my lover, my muse.

I am your loyal disciple.

I live for your climaxes.

simply, I am obsessed ...

not only as compulsion, but for the very being of it ... the form, the skeletal structure, the breath that inflates its lungs, the tickle that propagates a giggle, the fles searing screams of unimagined satisfaction ...

not only. but yes.

more. more. more.

its the construction of it, the pathway to the unknown, thru the garden, thru the gate, to the sweet forgotten place of bewilderment & fascination. I am the subnation. The illness the ignore. Goddess of the underworld. she-star, warlock, satan, overlord, waiting to be born.

I am in love with a poem, I married her, & made soft little promises we disguised as children. I have a happy life, of secrets & ceremony. I am having an affair. With music. Passionate, wild, & dangerous. With her, I can do things that my poem considers forbidden, unspeakable things that feel sooooo good that are once primitive & infinite.

my addiction is art. Everyday I am desperate for a fix. One more hit. One more trip. Where the answers can be deciphered. Where my visions can be heightened. Me, pilgrim, prophet, politician, poet ... spiritual archeologist. Digging deeper and deeper. For the boney remains. I need it. My religion of affliction. To survive. To remain alive. It's ok, it's just fine. I'm not hurting anyone. (really) its just what I need to do to get by.

-otep shamaya-