Wallace Gould, 'To a Weakling'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

To a Weakling

Do not speak of faith in me.
Do not pour out your heart upon me, only to soil me with what you think I am.
Do not crown me king of your limitations.
Do not chatter about understandings.
Do not mention lasting friendship.
Do not speak.
I am striving to hear each note of the swallows
swooping through the door of the barn.
I am striving to hear each whine of the autumn winds
sidling about the eaves.
I am longing to tell you that what I am is likely to cause in you a shudder;
that what I am is likely to silence you;
that I have done all things;
and that I am proud—
serenely proud—
of having no limitations.
Fool, could I silence you
by telling you these things?

By Wallace Gould

Helen in Underworld ~ Catherynne M. Valente

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

It was in Egypt. I found them in Egypt:
little oily seeds.
iridescent, almost,
like hummingbird pupils.


There was sand in your eyebrows
when you gave them to me,
sand in the creases of apothecary-palms.
Your eyes were full of mercury and gypsum,
overflowing with bryony and hellebore.
I thought the venom-glut meant
you were to be trusted.
You promised to make of me
a cloud-Helen,
a creature of vapor and moonlight.
You promised that roses would detonate in my brain,
that my heart would crack
and its ventricles would overflow
with olives and goatsblood.


You promised that oblivion
would strangle me with ringed hands.


You promised me I would remember nothing.


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