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The Ironic Smile Of A Sword That's Tasted Blood

The ironic smile of a sword that's tasted blood.
Bless the slayer who wounds me. I've been
hemorrhaging roses ever since. And bless
the tormentors of the heretical truth, voice coaches all
who taught me to sing in the fire to no one
without feeling the pain. Bless the executioner
for dropping the double-bladed axe of the moon
on the nape of my neck. I transcended thought,
tore all the wire-mesh down from
the home-made aviaries of my voice
and released all my cages from the grasp of my doves
in a slum of rapture that pitied the landlords
who had none. I bless the manipulator who taught me
how to love the joys of spontaneous chaos without contrast
and the psychosexual sadist with the intimate private life
of an X-rated hardware store who sold me a sabre saw
that allowed me to cut my umbilical cord to the puppet masters
and fly without strings like a burning box-kite among the birds.

O, and the long erosive sorrows of an afterlife
with nothing to hope for anymore, what gifts
have they not arrayed before me like wine to a grape,
enlightenment sweetening my heart
with the fluid fruits of compassion?
Namaste, my old teachers, namaste.
I sing it from a low-hanging bough
like the new moon in the heart of a nightbird
and when I went like a wolf to dig up
where I was interred, to give myself
a decent sky burial, I discovered
a motherlode of constellations had replaced
the dusky, sad marrow of my bones
that lay all around like the clappers of bells
that had their tongues cut out by the silence.

Praise be to the assassins on top of the world mountain
and the Old Man who wheels and deals
in sex and drugs like a false prophet who casts
a shadow upon the earth like a tarpit
where the trophies of extinction sink into time
and the abattoirs are redesigned as museums of the mind.
I decultified myself like a contract killer
and rehabilitated my existence by letting a full moon
kiss your eclipse on the lips like the birthmark of a man
who's about to die at the hands of an apprentice
he raised like an orphan as one of his own.
Ever since you died, the flowers don't mind coming to my wake.
I shall always sing lyrics of acid rain over your grave
that sting the heart like a child choir of scorpions.

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