Desire

Untitled Painting by German artist Anselm Kiefer

Even if the brilliant sparkling sunshine streaming through crystal clear morning windows
a cat’s paradise, even if the body wakes wide open just before the alarm, ready to seize the whole entire day with cheerful good nature, should the clouds pass over the sun and cast a long shadow in the heat of noon, goosebumps erupting on naked flesh, the spine reacting tail to medulla oblongata, there is always the oily viscous force of the melancholy, always a chasm like vacuum waiting to suck all the light away.

The tar pitch shadow clings so, and like a meadow sweet rabbit nibbling unaware on the purple bouncing heads and three leaves of clover, when the shadow passes, it is thoughtless, reactionary, defensive never asking “is it cloud or is it predator?”

This is how it is.

The lake, may be on the granite mountain top, flitting insects buzzing joyfully about their short day, they fight amongst each other stating boldly with no thought, “this is my territory.”  Still the ancient water dragon, long thought to be a myth, emerges, like a snatching crocodile.  Whose territory is it when demons willfully rend your daydreams?

And later as the serpentine body suns itself, fresh from the kill, on the afternoon rocks, lazy and somnolent, there can be no cooling splash of skinny dip water to ease the heat of all the heart that burns.  It is this burning which throws the greatest shadow, from the inside, some blistering iron shield, burning with its brutal unrelenting light.  It cannot be borne, and the attempt to throw it off seers deeper on raw flesh.

Let the sun set on another empty day.  The smoking Tiki lit party peopled by things that only emerge late in the tintinnabulant evening.  Vampyres, sycophants, inside-outers and the like, all gayly masked shunners of light.  That self absorbed one, over here on the outskirts? Drawing unwanted attention to herself, through inexpert attempts, and angry outbursts at all the blood sucking, soul eating, and bucking bronco beauty ridden to exhaustion by popular opinion, and the sullied imperfection of a rotten culture.

Later she takes to her fetal eggless nest.  Sightless, she prays for eyes long after she prays for the dreams to bring a vision, but still either way she is blind, her sockets empty, she begs for love too, but rejects herself.  Either way she knows her nightmares and moonlit unfenced borders will steal away any hope of peaceful slumber.

Why does she keep waiting for tomorrow it is an old cliche that will never come.

She digs in waiting and wanting anyway.

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