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Cecilia Pays Tribute to Oscar Wilde | EP #6

[ city ambience ] [ serene synth music fades in ] [ poem starts ]
Consider, O Lord, how You sit atop the sky; like a man
in a glass bottom boat. Consider sky elsewhere;
worn thin as a mattress. Consider the women, marbling
in their corners the men with tongues of bronze; how you tool the silence around them. Consider the rolling wheel of Spring
the Summer, a haunt of blue; How the rivers roll up like prayer mats. Consider my Lover;
the yellow church of his skin, the clean
wells of his ears; How the notes of a song come to him
like birds descending
on a power line; How in his absence I am of two throats each of them cramped. Consider, O Lover, my throat
white as cigarette paper. The crushed lavender of my knuckles. My heart, a dulled needle threaded through
too many patterns. Lover, they were stitches of pain
you undid me of; There is blood gone rancid in me you can not move. But how we comb and comb the night
for jewels to stack around one another,
to cast in the mold of our love. That dandy, the sky, enters blue-suited
sun like a scotch in hand as I consider the brevity of a lion; How many flies can touch at decay. Consider the road, long
and forked as the Devil’s own tongue. Consider the Devil, burning every bridge; Placing
in every tree a black bird. In every bird a black thought. [ soft synth music ] “What My Loneliness Does” Pace sideways, on
pointed crab feet. Skin me. Like the quick tongue
of a hunting knife. Curl the floorboards. Open like a sail and let the wind
fill it, like a man given to belly. Migrate through my body,
to it’s warmer parts. Wear the mouth of a blow up doll. Father the bees. Grow roots, then teeth. Like the snow, blanket
softly everything. Unfold the days. Fold them
up again into paper cranes. Beyond the nest of cricket song. Through the sugarcane fields,
with no machete. Out of one moment and into
the next, like a person
entering the wrong room. Before me. Leaving trail,
leaving scent. Over mountains
of fully capsized
blue. In the rain, touching
the cheek of every woman. Under sky older still
than this one. In the East, with a suitcase
full of windows.

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