In Thrall To Lilith

She parades into my dreams: her impudent pudenda, an open, 
intricately carved flower.  Bees and stinging things live within, 
waiting for the soft whisper of invitation.  She is...
vinegar and vanilla, vaseline and vagina.

She is a cascade of vocabulary: vibrant and vivid: 
the supreme vivisector of vacuous idolatry. 

Her dictionary is a thrashing of ten-fold limbs; and all meaning 
is encoded in the fluttering of her labial wings.  I am a prisoner 
to her intelligence, her volition, her erudition.

There are pale blue men
working her Siberian pits,
freezing;
and all for the want of a kiss.

Lying out on her gypsy brass bed, she smokes a cheroot: 
staining the walls with disdainful agitation - her cheeks, 
red as those of Modigliani’s whores.
 
The blasphemies of pigment beguile: viscous rivers drain the soul 
of every homely warmth.  Her likeness cannot be caught: it eludes 
with simplistic ease.  Teasing, she baffles me with the pink virtuosity 
of her tongue.

In vain, I reach out to grasp her grassy banks: yearning 
for the safety of a foreign shore; the heat of inevitability, 
the dark depths of her cavities.

It was she who devoured my strong ancestors: she who left Christ 
crying and gasping for breath.  What hope then for me, 
with only my clotted paintbrushes and second hand adjectives 
to protect me?

The future, I see, is a glassy cold pit: yielding nothing more 
than small handfuls of flawed diamonds.