At the edge of earthly delights, I am accumulating black tar in my pipes. It keeps the running of my body smooth and deliberate. I understand the delight of the dark and the allure of pain — of course, having never suffered either correctly. I understand that right next to the garden of delights is the alley of piss and drunkards. I also understand that in the garden of delights glasshouses are planted right at the center. The fragility of the earth is captured inside such shatter-able walls.

I have eaten too many coins
I need money to cut my hair (and write my book)
I have coins in places I do not even know
When I add them, I know they won’t remain money anymore

I am inside a blue bubble, waist up
With me are icebergs of men
I am outside the bubble, waist down
Exposed where I need shade

The greatest blessing of all
A mother decreed to hold my head
~ as I puke all of the life lessons taught by her
I puke them on the face of my reflection, that of
men in my family, half abused half amused half innocent
half the maker of the well and the pusher of its oil

I rest under a tent of flesh. My own and that of two silly animals who bit me for no real cause. They came running at me for a taste of my blood. All they got is scrapes of skin and some of that tar. With me in my tent is the shadow of my cat and slippery snakes protecting my gentle parts. They have grabbed my nipples so tight that no new man or animal can suck an ounce of me. These loyal wardens are the only ones I ever needed any protection from.

In the dusk of delight
A hungry moon blinks and shrinks
In the dusk of delight
My sister is tucked in her corner, proudly asleep
We are all skinny gray things, Our bones are
the only jewels we wear. In the dusk of delight
We have decreased from looking for pleasure to
~tunnels of make-believe.

Flames and claws, bubbles and fizz. Rise and rile of all the fluids we know. In the quest of the perfect day. We laugh louder than any other day. We eat faster than any insect could be born. We dress in silks falling off our eyes. We hold hands and enter each others open leaves. We are the worms we squirm at. We are the moist ends of dry beautiful things. We are rotting real slow. We are yet to learn all the delight that comes with all things foul. We are the blue cheese spread thin on the crust of our gardens. We are bubbles, fizz and we are the release we are looking for.

Picture - The Garden of Earthly Delights (Bottom Right). Hieronymus Bosch. Public domain