It is passed through the shadows of the unconscious world
her scripture for the living, feeling, diminishing..
reverberate in young, fast-flowing arteries, the blood
of my blood shall be indilute. And all that she write with her lips,
with each nuance, did surgery to my heart, my brain, like
the pages of a Bible to the will of my actions. Her eyes are the
Garden of Eden, as they spoke the secrets of heaven, but
sometimes they are midnight - mostly midnight, untouched by
the thousand glare of a slivered sun. God, she had power
to turn words into statues, stone and earth, imperishable as
waves, she exhaled a miasma of fallen dreams, untidy
promises, they dubbed her heretical, that she lived her life
like pure poetry, not a misplaced word, a vacant moment,
she danced every dance, birthed every child, crushed the
eschatology of the world, in a prayersong, heard loudest by
the faithless legions, who now march for the experiment
of rogue scientists. A provocation against the ascetically
obscured - she blew in their face a whimsical laughter,
in the dayshine of present beauty that could
embezzle the air from a billionaire's lung. You
will set the monet-images of her life to repeat,
your mind will caress her legacy, and the maceration of
memories, like that day you held her up to face the rain,
soaked in the deluge of joy, she spread her arms
as an angel receiving cosmic precipitation, and you yield-
rain would never look dull. we are witnesses.. to
a visionary performer, drinking the elixir of scattered grace,
assembled illogically as a mad-artist sketching her gospel
in notepads, contextualised to fit the yin-yang of taoism,
we are opposites she said, to interrelate
and strengthen each other. She exemplifies the disturbance which
cause most risk///incite the most gnashing surprises, and
drowned me in a herbarium of Circe's deceptions,
they are instruments to escape the reals, and confiscations
of intimacy, solitude, pleasure!
broken, and unworshipped pleasure! You would sever a limb to stay
inside her Mecca of neurosis, but history recycles itself,
as all ancient gods who gift us in legends and revolutions, she is
sacrificed to the nature of vices, like a juxtaposition
of the aesthetic world against an undrugged reality.

Sometime I should thank her
for bringing your consciousness to me,
within a micrometre of extinction;
indistinguishable from a ship wreck.

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