Pull & Pulp

I grab onto his belt loop

which teases like a marionette

the unveiling of hidden figures

Some grotesque—

the sight pulls at your temples

Others statuesque—

they freeze the lense of time on a moment,

an object which acts as a magnet to everything

seen and unseen,

known and unknown.

The pulp of voids vast and vanishing surmount themselves onto carved and caressed ivory stone in a garden somewhere south of Crete.

Our hands find fissures

on limbs, lips,

eyelids, lashes

and curved spines

twisting like infinity pools

about our stomachs.

This dance was made in times before we stood,

before we knew binary systems

and held eyes which see binomial humps in the land of our predecessors.

Deceased and undisguised.

The willows shiver

as they’re lances absorb the moon’s gray

and night bourgeons,

having the last say she is the uncontested bearer of sensuous cornucopia.

We cry in ecstatic pleasure from the courtyard

where roses have bloomed with blood drenched thorns

where breasts look to the sky in prayer.

The Garden drums a whisper:

“Pull and pulp. Pulp and pull.”