Make a mess of me

a poem writes me paradoxically

Oh sweet, gnarly, 
nasty, misery. 
Subtle, quiet, 
curious, listening. 
Wanting, screaming,
desperate opening.
Sing to me,
this fucked up destiny.
Breathing joyous
golden mess of me.
Lick whatever 
wound is festering.
Dark and deep and
oh so delicate.
Throbbing heart please
fucking come to me.

Waiting, waiting
not so patiently.
Dig your claws in.
Meet the worst of me.

So this is it.
This love.
This bliss. 
These moments of
ugliness. 

I hate this fucking pain. 
I love this fucking game.
What is it anyway?
Love peers its head
into the mystery
illuminating a
crazy, beautiful monster.
Always hungry.
Always full. 
Always wanting the
best of you.

Hey, you, yes 
you there taking over me,
is this some kind of riddle
we’re making?
I hear you say
excellence is
transformation
in the middle of my
lover’s soliloquy. 
Are you the fool
come to lighten the day?

Who is writing this?

Some time’s passed
since I last asked,
so won’t you now
please answer me?
As I said, I’ve 
all but lost my patience
and the Muse demands 
an answer.

So I must choose?
That’s what you tell me?

Nigella or Ella or Effy or Faye or
what’s in a name anyway?
Resting restless, heavy lightness,
vanity is not so serious.
Nothing I say is in jest,
and yet…
didn’t good old William say that?
Romeo and Juliet and 
couldn’t he wait
just one more moment?

Oh, Muse, oh lover,
please take over. Take this poem
from my questioning. 
Bring me back
to eros’ den and 
dig into my 
wanting skin. 
Love me holy,
love me restless,
love me beyond 
recognition. 
Let me feel it.
Fear and darkness.
In the center,
it makes sense.

Love is a nucleus
everywhere
in everything.
Desire writhes
to connect strange entities. 
Two strangers, 
expanding and contracting
as one unit,
you said to me
in the secret room.

We’re not two strangers anymore;
tightened corners opened
through the mystery of this
third form,
Fortified, golden,
self-oxygenating.
A deeper thing, 
an elevation,
to see beyond
what once seemed
wavering.

To become the flame. 

Does the Muse’s Madness beckon? Subscribe, or feed me her, if you dare.