My lover marked me
with purple,
instead of red,
so that I might
be buried deep
in obfuscation,
a night with neither
moon nor
stars.

In my new guise
of blue bruises
and blossoming
welts,
emerged infectious
twin-spirited blasphemies:

the occult—
pair bonded swans
and blackened dancers’ feet

the romantic—
stabbings of the cochlea,
burning petals of the lotus


The obvious—
curdled milk,
the sweet stench of fresh shit
a pus filled wound

are fact without deeper consideration,
horrific and disgusting
which neither
the occult
or the romantic
can afford to be

only  
revealing themselves
with unseen calm brushes against the skin,
like cockroaches flying in rooms
with the lights turned off.