the bird in the cage

her sharp disastrous flesh outlined
in the thin black and white polaroid
the only fragment of her nakedness
the threadbare noise of our carnal
whining well it was that and certainly
not more not the winsome lyric piece
I thought I needed not the dangerous
edgy sadistic sex of catholic desire
though it was that sometimes and
sometimes even more there was
always that intimation of an ending
and not the heart one, never the heart
one, no. the end was violent, the waters
running to the sea the memory of
another life time perhaps in ireland
viking me raping her or was she
always playing me that way? this century
and another? You'd think the slipping
dates, tacky with her juice, would
leave a noise within this room. You'd
think there was somebody else at
the end of time, whistling that sad
bullshit tune. I hunger for the ripping
sound of flesh torn at the viking's
need but all along I always knew she
made it so made it all so clear she
lived this life as a provocation daring
me to force the moment knowing
how this destruction is a communicable
disease the cells infected the thoughts
shading their character into anger
a dark angel a savage bird his beak
hard hungry for her blood why did she
want this? why did she capture
this dark first millenium sailor and
make him this naked man
and now a last small rainstorm
a memory at this point fell upon
her flat bare breasts just before
we left it for good desire another
bad song in the constant performance
this thin existence has become
will there ever be an escape? I thought
I had a plan this time, an inkling of
the thorny anemone grown within
this shallow chest. there had to be
a physical effect of this garnet coupling,
like a bloody crazy argument
in an irish catholic family. would
that seraphim come to be this time?
not a chance. she entertained my
cock purely to effect the possibility
it might work she always knew
she wouldn't take the bait no matter
how I carved the words into her
cunt, no matter how thick and hard
the blade she escaped, her tears
the lubricant of her freedom. & I
am still the bird in the cage, alone
on a thorny palm, plastic in my plan

Perhaps this is an explication of the secret charge of personal crime that lurks in any heart.