The Fetishist

I have made of one taboo
my cultural fold, a recess
of woods recessed in woods
satyrred with heavy glee.
My fetish is my starry heaven,
the poem I write ten thousand
times over trying to sound
it right. Can one drop of fire
on my tongue synod the oceans
seven, the same rote expletive
glossing every angel’s voice
in the choiring constellations?
I think so. I am so compulsed
by the certainty I’ll find her
yet in what subtracts
me by iota from sheer fire;
As if stiletto heels were
asbestos to my soul’s convulse
to walk creation’s coals.
My fetish keeps me on
the precipice of truly finding
out her name so I am
always guessing it, my love
in leather lubricent
to sail the marge forever
a mile offshore of her, that
strand where she and I
would certainly and
legally and permanently begin,
silencing this infernal bell for good.
It is like a dark beast I ride
in exult servitude,a secret society
of one astride an even deeper
code, where saddle and rein
are so confused as to save me
from my sere. It is the honeyed
pith of all the bland days
amassed in bushels I must
bear, ever sweeter as
the burden grows. I protect
it like a candle on a windy
night, though I suspect
the opposite is true: My
fetish is a whirling
beacon in an old
lighthouse which keeps
my ships in view, the
throbbing vein in
every stormy night
which provides sold
rudder through the water
wild of high desire.
It is the nth of hell which
which makes waves so
tall and so malefically
sweet when they fold
and crash in paroxysms
of fatal blue, refreshing
that old hole in the
wash of roguish salts.
Raw again, I’m real
and hurting like hell
and praising the dark god’s
name which bids me lust
again in exactly the wrong
way. Anal, pedal, pedo,
necro: they’re only names
the light of day dams
us with, damming off its
own derange. What dry
dearthed dim kind of man
would I be without my
secret strange? These
raids across its rude
and unkempt border are
never meant to hurt
another as to celebrate
my own wounds with
the nails of brute encounter,
submitting to its
humiliations with arms flung
wide, a cross to hang
between love’s actual breasts,
rounds I’ll never get to ride,
much less propound
sufficiently in actual days again.