Autopsy ... Detritus
Her scattered remains trailblazing a failed journey across
The planet’s surface; no diseases, only the same pale flatness.
It’s subtle red charter a cold glaze of blood from out of time.
Her hand lays gleaming pale disastrous flesh upon the rocks
The great canyon disguises her hair's yellow strands,
Cracks in the legendary strata of this Martian heart. Across
The endless plain archaic tin whistle singing lures the fool
To his forgotten chaos. He waves a wry grin
Disappearing in the tiny-grained sand, its very essence
Her lost bloody child. Hidden, Hidden, Shallow, Numismatic.
Is she ever going to be found? The child in her, the thing that
Stands for something else? Will he wonder where her coffin
Is delivered? Will he walk down Seventh Street, unasked? Will
He … climb out of … the Great Martian Western Sea with
Any piece of her in hand? The yellow man does not know.
Recently discovered another Keye Luke poem, or a poem at least in the genre of the red planet poems. Once again this remarks upon the discovery of the dead girl's corpse in the sand. I note this is an ongoing theme for me: Miranda in Strange Sins, any number of poems about BB discovering her hidden death (sexual abuse) at the hands of her drowned father, that other girl again and again, talking murder and death. What is it with this particular part of my psyche? I have to really wonder. I know the relationship with that girl was particularly destructive. At the time we both had the spectre of her husband's anger and his overt violence (he once tore the guttering off of a house at a rugby party after having gotten quite drunk and become violent and jealous). It is remarkable that he never tried to kill me (well, he did threaten me once, but it was over the phone). As for how she dealt with him, she controlled him. I think that was one of the things she liked about me. Although she could exercise a certain control, there was always that sense of taunting me to do the most extreme things. She liked that extreme, in the physical. That was where we ran that possibility of doing something we both would regret. Do I regret it now? I regret not having gone even farther. I only regret not having called her bluff. Whatever the fuck it was.
The planet’s surface; no diseases, only the same pale flatness.
It’s subtle red charter a cold glaze of blood from out of time.
Her hand lays gleaming pale disastrous flesh upon the rocks
The great canyon disguises her hair's yellow strands,
Cracks in the legendary strata of this Martian heart. Across
The endless plain archaic tin whistle singing lures the fool
To his forgotten chaos. He waves a wry grin
Disappearing in the tiny-grained sand, its very essence
Her lost bloody child. Hidden, Hidden, Shallow, Numismatic.
Is she ever going to be found? The child in her, the thing that
Stands for something else? Will he wonder where her coffin
Is delivered? Will he walk down Seventh Street, unasked? Will
He … climb out of … the Great Martian Western Sea with
Any piece of her in hand? The yellow man does not know.
Recently discovered another Keye Luke poem, or a poem at least in the genre of the red planet poems. Once again this remarks upon the discovery of the dead girl's corpse in the sand. I note this is an ongoing theme for me: Miranda in Strange Sins, any number of poems about BB discovering her hidden death (sexual abuse) at the hands of her drowned father, that other girl again and again, talking murder and death. What is it with this particular part of my psyche? I have to really wonder. I know the relationship with that girl was particularly destructive. At the time we both had the spectre of her husband's anger and his overt violence (he once tore the guttering off of a house at a rugby party after having gotten quite drunk and become violent and jealous). It is remarkable that he never tried to kill me (well, he did threaten me once, but it was over the phone). As for how she dealt with him, she controlled him. I think that was one of the things she liked about me. Although she could exercise a certain control, there was always that sense of taunting me to do the most extreme things. She liked that extreme, in the physical. That was where we ran that possibility of doing something we both would regret. Do I regret it now? I regret not having gone even farther. I only regret not having called her bluff. Whatever the fuck it was.
posted by As Bjorn at 9:04 PM
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