mercredi 25 février 2015

Sisters, a Tribe Called Red

Madonnina II - Lempicka

Empty chalices

Here is a whispered, faithless orison
For a meaningful disclosure:

I was once told
that I should venerate my own insignificant body
and hollow soul
as much as any saint
from the celestial arches of heavenly, limpid lands;
well I've never been a believer-
no altar candle for me
no piety for faceless seraphs
whom I don't know the names of.
If my soul does linger above my body
after the inevitable final whimper,
it will slowly scratch its way down
somewhere hot.

But despite my sacrilegious, piteous existence
cursing yearning for your soul, blistering passion for your embodiment,
I feel like the dry walls of this blasphemous mouth of mine
were once papered by canvases of sacred fondness as sublime as the Sixteenth Chapel.
I feel as though the acclaim of my worth was once your litany for milder skies,
I remember the breadth of your affection and the width of my praise
and the ephemeral, exquisite vale in our clasped breaths,
I feel as though we were once as grand and enshrined
As the hallowed and soaked foreheads of martyrs
in the smokey dust of roman empires -
Where did all this beauty go?

My love, I do not remember when,
or how,
there could have been so much fascination
for such a trivial myth
as my profane name,
and neither do you.

I am a swollen,
irritable piece of angst,
and holy despair,
and maddening love,
and unbelievable, insignificant hope; 
my love, I am a cathedral in ruins where you no longer wish to pray-
Silent, excruciating dances of stained glass gleams
and tedious whispers of inflamed mantras
no longer populate my desolate halls.
I am a deserted place of worship,
a forsaken, withered cult,
a chapel dusted
by amnesia.

It would take a lot more
than a lonesome pilgrim like him
to retrieve faith
in my empty chalices.

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