© 2000-9 mykl g. sivak

Love poem

February 15, 2000/February 9, 2009

Day of some dead saint, who
loved and fucked—with god
in his eyes and sweat
on his lip,

in post-mortem allegiance
with ancient pagan Cupid
—whose arrows shaped storylines—pierced
the hearts of Abelard
and Heloise—

perforated the chest of
sexy Romeo,
the broad pectorals of
Brad Pitt, the stinking
cauliflower flesh
of drooling Joseph Merrick,

with arrows sharpened
with animal stupidity,
twisting sperms like augers
that gnaw through
the ova’s shell—

tiny arrows in the hot
bare chests of one trillion
dumb Sebastians,
lashed helpless to phallic posts,
biceps and abdominals
flexing against the ties,

and reddest blood flows
from their hearts, to flush
their lips and stiffen
members.

In darkened rooms they thrust,
raging furious hungry
against the truth of lonesome,
hopeless, existence.

Probing fingers search and enter,
find places deemed secret as if,
the asshole is a soul’s socket,
as if minds and animas can
connect via tongue and urethra,
or through stylus and literacy.

Once, Saint Valentine
had lived—and in some antique February
he crouched cursing
the heavens, cried for some
lost love and shat into a hole

he had dug with unwashed hands,
in the cold European ground
thick with larvae and relics.