Statues of the Virgin Mary Weep Blood, Why Should Others Not Likewise Menstruate
- or -
A high-minded orchard is an awful place to fall.
I've been licking statues. I've been licking statues, kissing them. Some erode beneath the glaze of my vitriolic tongue, their carved aquiline features caving inward, cancerous and leprous and accompanied by fate's cruel chuckle, it delights in their delayed rot, the quiet sobs of sculptors long dead. Some turn away, suddenly aware and very sure that it is not my crawling ape tongue and impatient ape fingers for which they have silently borne the centuries' weight. But some glow and delight, groan and crack and press into my embrace, stone lips separate and moisten in solemn and immediate defiance of their nature, and their fingers spread the folds of ancient stone robes and into which I settle, bashful at the unsung warmth of marble, a skeletal peace observed only by the morbid gardener for whom my insistence was only a passing curiousity and my death so deserved and welcomed as a respite;
"That asshole would he just would, rotted between carved thighs - in death he skewers and is skewered by hyperbole - with a pike he never knew to wield anyhow, and she too cold to reciprocate" [this is irony] "it is not pity I feel! It is not - he just would - "
But the respite soon ends and I die and the statues slowly crumble and the gardener tends her spiral of flowerbeds where the blossoms refuse to fall nor do they ever burst from fertile buds but just dumbly Are.
At the foot of the statue there is magic in the dust of my sperm, and a bird perched upon the marble nipple shits a seed stolen from the orchard's fallen fruit, which the magic catches and sighs gently into dark soil, and something will unfurl, unnoticed by the sterile eye of our morbid gardener, and will bud in spring and cause madness amongst the mindless flowers as surely as the bees take to the ley lines with their dusted gifts.
late winter 2013
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