there was no Magna Mater, her unchartered unlove
that created emptiness, void�s creatrix, that matrix
of pain shaping days written black and white
over Hell�s walls, charity�s charter just one more intense graffito,
caritas�s mindless mantra inscribed by hope�s eternal child,
where no help remained from the hands of a carpenter
who carved society brittle to the bone,
the tense acceptance of norms carved in stone.
and in this desert one is deserted daily
escorted by dame duty to one�s just desserts,
anxiety�s �clairs that leak enlightenment
like some retarded version of Voltaire,
and every borderline is Rousseau today,
dreaming a mother in every casual lover
and pasting walls ad nauseam with snapshots of his tattered past
flagged like cupid�s tattered banners, as if by chance
those flags borne before them, naked to the waist
and aching emptiness in the hollowest breast,
a fertile nesting ground for the pelican Anguish,
she who fed her babies with her own heart�s blood
and buried Nothing in Adam�s created clay,
a bird�s stinking shit is god�s reddest mud
and morning�s monstrosity falls flat to this needy graffiti
bleeding hope and love and need
and she and i have given each other hearts that beat
still and even dream despite all in their granted night
we fixed in darkness one star�s inherited light
and we are become at last a pair of troughs filled in greed
that even we may feed.