Grotesque, in love,
spiritual, in decay,
I wrote love’s necrosis
in morse code from the grave,
I sought love in blackoutsand drug-induced paranoia,
against the nothing where
people turn into puppets filled with hair.
My mouth seized with terror.
My mind frozen. Tongue bit in half.
Once, I heard love's voice from a convent
at the rim of a red arroyo in Santa Fe.
A saintly presence stood in the picture window.
"Guarding a holy place," I thought.
A whisper for release came from behind adobe walls
like a woman's body waiting for touch.
My hunger reached for her voice,
but reeled away tremulous before the pure
presence, and I continued on that road
looking for a drink or to get laid.
But love came to me in that voice, so I can write:
“I once prayed at the Church of Despair.
You embrace the indefinable there.
Walls and windows splinter at your feet.
Death is in the ground.
You hear your own disgust. Your own hate.
You hope it’s not a virus going around.”
(c) copyright 2012 Charles David Millet. All rights reserved.
This is an unpublished poem, posted now in response to @manicddaily's poetry prompt at dVersePoets.com. Karin's idea is that we should write something in the French poetic tradition. This poem is always related in my mind with Baudelaire's poetry, which I read continually as a younger poet. I hope it is "twisted" enough to fulfill Karin's prompt description.
Image: This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.