My Madonna

My Madonna: Is a pica-ninny playing the piccolo for these waltzing plants; shyly serenading her forlorn lover’s shadows in the crevices of a prophet’s cradle. ‘Lucifer, take me with you to the skies above and cremate my body in the fires below. Spare my ashes for the devil, I owe. Seize my soul for I yearn to know the fruits of these divine seeds we sow. Tear me into bits and pieces, have no mercy on this broken body, I wish to mutilate no more. I pray. Oh Lucifer! How I pray to let go…’

My Madonna: Is the pi of a circle you circumnavigate a thousand years before you really know the secrets of your own soul. Thereupon, you burn into scarlet flames. Phut! You cease to exist. If you meet this Madonna of mine, your eyes will conflagrate and the shards of your shattered heart with pierce your thoughtless mind. Light! There will always be light. These picaresques', I write, for she tells me so. Once she whispered into my barren soul. Said she would paint my body, one day, never today, in crimson alcohol. Maybe, yesterday. Perhaps, tomorrow. I wait. And I wait. For she has told me so. But love, these bells toll no more. Ti's her dervish demeanor. I disintegrate. Evaporate. I can never be whole.

My Madonna: Hovers at the foot of my peasant’s bed. Ah, a woman in a golden robe. Stands on this alter, of this sinful brothel. How she undresses me with her cruel gray eyes. My Madonna is the sacristan of this sacrilegious Church. Protestant. Catholic. Agnostic. Evangelist. Gothic. Atheist. She probes her blade like nails into my skin and cuts my wrist open. I watch how the profane blood gushes forth. Prickling infinitesimal cubes of salt melt into the boiling pool of my spewing clots of self-loathing. With her delicate fingers she peals the dead flesh off; beings to nibble at the transparent film of conglomerated cells ravenously. ‘The sacrament of my confession,’ she spits sadistically. I become a part of her. I am alive within her. Alas! Immortality has buried me into the agelessness of this lifeless woman.

My Madonna: Probes her thumb into the hemorrhaging wound. I clutch my fist into a white ball of pain. Bite your tongue, let her twist and turn inside you, within you, without you. I watch as she presses her finger against my stretched skin. The innards of my arm aching. The lesion expanding, tearing at the edges; foams of grotesque pulp bubble through. ‘This is a mark of your womanhood.’ A paper thin layer plasters my sanity. Creases of a silky web smear across my wrist. Like a vagina; the diamond shape of a woman’s oral cavity. My decree of sacrifice. The heirloom of her love. The tainted memory of her existence. She reaps in me. For I implant her desire to live no more.

My Madonna: Rips open her gold satin robes. I lay and watch her, one hand between my legs. The soft folds of her lips quiver. How they part into a skewered smile. This room is my Ashram. I find my deities smuggling senseless words to me in the silhouette of her empire. I beseech them wordlessly to leave my maiden and me alone in sinful fumes of our exhausting passion. Alas! My Madonna smiles shamelessly at her own objectification. The afternoon ting of orange bounces off of her olive tanned skin. She moves closer, swaying her hips elusively. She intertwines her fingers with mine and dissolves them one at a time, into her mouth. She sucks at them seductively, slowly, warmly. Ripples of orgasm begin to seize me. I am overwhelmed. I grab her fragile neck and shift her towards me. I bite her sagging lip. Slip my tongue into the soft meshes of her dissolving orifice. She strokes her tongue over the teeth indentations she left behind. My tongue rolls into itself. Deeper. I want to be deeper within. I disentangle the idiom on my tongue, in towards her breathless void. Her golden ash hair fall between our gravity defined emptiness. I trace her subtle skin, the curves on her back. In my hand, in my mouth, inside me, on top of me, beneath the wilted unconsciousness of my body; I want to be within her. I want to be her.

My Madonna: Murmurs in my right ear, ‘Fuck me!.' The web of skin, the crumbling of perception, the dissolution of time, the liquefaction of pores befitting into the traces of two souls at once; only for her. I cease to exist, for her. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Just for her. I part her legs and watch her blazing womanhood decoying my credulous thoughts. The Bermuda Triangle of her love. If I leap, I will never return. If I dare to venture deep within her; where upon the apogee of her pleasure lies a demon, I will have to forsake, life. I trace the petals of her foreskin with the tip of my finger. ‘Please. Fuck me!’ Her back arches into a bridge of explosion, her juices drooling droplets of sparkling diamonds. My aphrodisiac, the solace of my sexual ecstasy, lies in the ectoplasm current of her velvet voice. I sink into the folds of her skin. My finger inside her, traveling the course of her innards, tracking the heartbeat of her organs; I watch in bewilderment as her body folds into itself. I am gripped with an urge to hurt her. I push forth into the endless tunnel of her existence. Gasping, she takes hold of my wrist, thrusting it deep within her. ‘Hurt me more,’ she screams. She wants me to damage her. She wants me imprint her with my imperfections. She wants me to scar her with my rage. She wants me to belong to her.

My Madonna: Is a glove of human flesh on my one, two, three, four, five fingers. My hand forms a rhyme in accordance to her fervor. Her legs long-drawn-out over my shoulders; her fingers hooked into my back, scratching me in unison to her labored breathing. Long lashes of red, purple demarcate her euphoria. She pulls me towards her, her nails biting into the nape of my neck, teething my lip, she submits her mouth. I become the unsung hero of her demise. In that moment, I am the master of her destruction. A perverse need to preserve her engulfs me in rage. I swallow the bitter sage of absurdity. My Madonna becomes my commodity. Oh! But I wish nothing more than to die within her.

My Madonna: I disengage from the ingestion of her irretrievable trail. My hand dyed in red. Melted stones of ruby run down my palm. I smear scarlet over her tender breasts. Her nipples suddenly rigid under the tip of my finger. She shivers. I see my fury reflect in the ball of her eye. I kiss her gently, shading her in tones of blush. Her body is my canvas. I blotch her with the dye of my obsession. I lay myself between her legs. Blood. I drink her blood. Burgundy. Warm. Bitter. Sweet. Metallic. I drink in mouthfuls. Clotted blood streams into the bowl of my palm, I bathe in her blood. Menstrual Blood! The exemplar of a woman’s fertility; I drink from the pool of her fertility. Menstrual Blood! The dogma of a woman’s youth; I drink from the pool of her youth. Menstrual Blood! The epitome of a woman’s sin; I drink from her pool of sin. Menstrual Blood! The unborn child of my love; I drink from the pool of my bastard child’s dead body.

My Madonna: Has painted me in crimson alcohol. ‘Alas! Ti's the sacrament of my love.’ A love so very bold. A love no song could sing. A Love no word could hold. My Madonna…My Madonn…My Madon…My Mado…My Mad…My Ma…My M…My…M…!