you will wake with the light of RA in your eyes- on his burning boat, walls of the underworld lit, revealing lost lovers on the banks, alone and half kissed, faces mostly forgotten, bodies, not there at all or distorted, everything a blur, bodies untouched by your hand but not by your fantasies.
you will wake with the Song of the old cross in your head – you can’t reach out to cusp and heal the flowers, you can’t reach out to touch her cheek. you hands are bloodied, her form sinks into a mediocre mud stream, a face swallowed by burial ceremonies made possible by her marriage vows to another man. there are thorns in your heart. you remember someone saying, “it is finished.”
you will leave in search of morning dew – but you will find the land shriveled, animals staggering from dehydration, rivers running on empty, the sweat on your brow vanishing like steam, your blood turning to sand, dry tongues on strange skin; your lips, cracked and peeling.
morning has broken and so has your body.
you will see elements of her appearing under streetlights – slumped against pillars in dingy corners, innocence suffocating under make up, the smell of cunt on your fingers.
you will see a sign of ravens fleeing void decks, abandoning fresh carcasses, small intestines dangling from beaks, a history of omens in black pearl eyes.
you will feel the lull of solitary winter despite the heat.
you will realise that inside, you are made of ice.
you will see two women in black:
one; tall and lanky and taut from the lustre of monochrome pages, stuck together by the wasted goo of your unfulfilled desires, making a mess of your bed sheet instead of making slow love. there should tears of joy and love on her face and promises on her lips but instead, there’s only your spunk. She kisses you goodbye at the door.
you know you’re not coming back. you know this is not love. you know her name is false while your money in her pocket is real.
there’s another woman.
tight black dress, high slit, head high, a mandate, a monarchy, scar across her neck like her throat’s been slit.
she exiles you to a cage in the earth where thoughts of her are forbidden. you are not given fire or food or a double bed. you kill rodents because they keep eating your flesh as you sleep. you kill rodents because at some stage, you need meat and blood to keep you alive. at some stage, there’s no point in living, but she will not cut the cord of your pulse. you sense she’s no longer in the castle but you know she’s still in your heart, haunting you. you sense you’re the only one left in this collapsed world of black moss and brick and polluted moats and thunderstruck towers. you can neither see sunlight or starlight while the light inside you shows how barren you are. this is the price you have to pay for slitting her throat. this is the price you pay for fucking her till there was no more light in your eyes.
– excerpt from, ‘The Seven Horns Of Night.’
#prose #sglit #literature #irvingpaulpereira