Apr 3, 2012

Metaphysical

Written by Michael McManus

Read by Martin Cockroft

Say sepulcher and then we will make love —
our body’s balance broken by a touch,
a tremor slight enough to raise the dead.
Call me strange for the comfort I find
in any coffin’s chance to forever rest.
Allow me to die slowly in your hospital,
even from afar. This is my guitar:
blue, purple, red, the elephant’s kneebone
making music it won’t ever forget.
Five wooden Buddhas sit beside our bed.
One dressed in beads from this year’s Mardi Gras.
Undressing means we will open Heaven’s gate.
Your nakedness is my cosmic headdress,
which I wear on our starry, tongue-fueled flights
through the cosmos, fatigued to phosphorous —
white-hot and burning bright the God we call to.
There’s something to be said for how you come
and go, particle, wave, the icy slope
without beginning or end. Say it again.
Say how the lightness of being in love,
comes with a paper bed,
and matches.

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