black art

April 22, 2016

a wood

I had forgotten the river runs near.
Your estrangement sends out all your black presences.
If I open the window a notch,
the walls when I come are hung with spiders.
My shoe is soon covered with their corpses, my sole.
The light attracts moths, the melancholy
of butterflies. They agitate the shade and where they settle
squash too amenably, fleshing the walls.
Sick to death, I lie
but am summoned by the fluttering of wings.
I jump up, switch on the light, lift up my hands
in horror against the bat, screaming
round and round me, the paranoia
of a lark. I fly to window, crouching, its squeamish
wings vulva against my face, I throw it wide open
and it is gone. I shut the window.
I will wake by lady migraine, if I sleep or not.

It is worse.
Somewhere you have flooded a zoo,
or released an aquarium.
My years without you
are wreathed with pythons, running with invisible tarantulas.
Look, there is black powder on the stair.
Somewhere you are making up your face.
A bottle breaks leering across my throat.
Somewhere your scent is putting on evening.
Look, there is a lithe black garter-
snake sidling across the floor.
Somewhere your thighs are fascinating, held.
I cut off its head; it does not bleed.
A leopard roars.
Somewhere your voice caresses, claws.
My neck and back are eaten with army ants.
Somewhere you are kissing another’s nape.
Feel, I am burning with fever.
Somewhere your tears are falling coldly.

There is no amulet for this spell
you have not put upon me.
Everything in this room you have touched.

euridice

October 14, 2015

OrpheusEurydice

This death
Is a declaration of independence.
I wait
In the closed room of her corpse
Which glistens and breathes, uncorrupted.
With the flare and smoke of my endless cigarettes
I could have travelled a long journey.
I have travelled a long journey.
Is it, as in a train,
I who am dead
And she, in agony, trying to draw me alive?

Can I make love to you, Euridice?
Not expecting you to move a muscle?
Necrophilia appals you.
Can I masturbate in sight of your body?
Love degrades more than death.

And she said, you must go ahead of me
And until the sun beats on you
You must not look behind,
Even though your forebearance be for nothing,
Even though I may not be following.

And once, I said to her corpse, promise me
If you feel the least stirring of life
You will move your hand, you will touch me,
If only my hand; and I will not touch you
But only allow whatever you wish to happen.
And I believe that her hand touched
My side, and it said, how thin you have grown,
And it stroked my side. And the dead hand stroked
My thighs and moved up, slowly, and her nipples
Were flowering, and I hoped that she wished
Me to enter her, and I did. But I could not
Have done. She is dead, dead.

And when she said, I can see a glimmer of hope,
There was a star,
But her death has so confused all logic,
I could not see if it belonged to any constellation,
If there were still constellations, only hidden
Behind the clouds of her eyes.
And looking at the star too intently
I covered it in darkness.

D. M. Thomas

Thinking about sex…

August 17, 2015

Leslie Mannès in Les corps magnétiques (2010) by Nicole Mossoux and Patrick Bonté

She wondered if she had grown obsessed with sex. She admitted to thinking about it almost all the time. … “And if I’m not thinking about sex, I’m thinking about death,” she added bitterly. “Sometimes both at the same time.”

D.M. Thomas
The White Hotel

Black Art…

June 22, 2010

I had forgotten the river runs near.
Your estrangement sends out all your black presences.
If I open the window a notch,
the walls when I come are hung with spiders.
My shoe is soon covered with their corpses, my sole.
The light attracts moths, the melancholy
of butterflies. They agitate the shade and where they settle
squash too amenably, fleshing the walls.
Sick to death, I lie
but am summoned by the fluttering of wings.
I jump up, switch on the light, lift up my hands
in horror against the bat, screaming
round and round me, the paranoia
of a lark. I fly to window, crouching, its squeamish
wings vulva against my face, I throw it wide open
and it is gone. I shut the window.
I will wake by lady migraine, if I sleep or not.

It is worse.
Somewhere you have flooded a zoo,
or released an aquarium.
My years without you
are wreathed with pythons, running with invisible tarantulas.
Look, there is black powder on the stair.
Somewhere you are making up your face.
A bottle breaks leering across my throat.
Somewhere your scent is putting on evening.
Look, there is a lithe black garter-
snake sidling across the floor.
Somewhere your thighs are fascinating, held.
I cut off its head; it does not bleed.
A leopard roars.
Somewhere your voice caresses, claws.
My neck and back are eaten with army ants.
Somewhere you are kissing another’s nape.
Feel, I am burning with fever.
Somewhere your tears are falling coldly.

There is no amulet for this spell
you have not put upon me.
Everything in this room you have touched.

D. M. Thomas