Cerebral Fainting and Flying to the Congo on the Wings of Isis
I can smell you in my hair
Long after you’ve gone,
You tell me that you don’t wear any perfume,
And I don’t want to believe you,
Because I’m hypnotized by your disembodied essence.
You’re waiting for me in my collection of old books,
You’re trailing me down the stairs at night like a ghost,
You’re hiding in the clothes of strangers,
You’re even in my dance class,
Where I travel to the Congo,
Just to get away from your Egyptian soul.
I hold my breath,
Because breathing you in is like a trip to Mount Parnassus
With its sacred flame and hallucinogenic passages,
Under the influence of your glandular beauty,
I’m falling victim to your sting operation,
Between the rumbling faults of our nation,
Under the Apollo sun,
Or, maybe I’m just smelling stain remover,
The kind everyone uses in the Winter,
When life gets messy.
A portal of Shout
Swallows me up like a honey trap
Into a chamber of wagging serpent tongues,
We’re living in an age where the chemical reactions of cleaning agents and pheromones
Are writing our futures,
The Greek Gods never cared about rug burns or heartburn,
Living it up and lighting a fire to it.
Why did they have to be so goddamn bad?
*** By the way, many of the coolest people have been Egyptian at one time or another. So, fear not, for your love of papyrus scrolls and arcane libraries. You are among friends.
