Will you journey to my inner sea?
The dawn screams in the distance,
it is the utter east invading.
Before sweep the fans of clouds,
slashes of mauve and iron grey,
clawed through bluing sky from darkness.
Homer smiles as fingers reach through ocean's horizon
and fall upon our pebbled peach, carving light and shadows
upon our still exhausted faces.
You, face still damp from swimming in pleasure's inlet
skip your stones upon the crests of my waves,
for this is my sea, and they are my tides and troughs.
You turn to me and glare with your sapphire gaze,
and rasp a question that we can't deny:
"Must it be?"
For we both know, it must be.
Will you journey into my inner sea?
Must it be? It must be, for that which
we wish to become to be at all.
Your shoulder's slump and your body,
that torques sculpture carved by chance and time,
grows limpid limp.
I cannot help but to respond,
and finding soft patch of white sand,
I pose languid upon it.
Come to me, come to me,
and enter into my inner sea.
Wretched are the waves tossed by storm,
but the sea bed does not know it,
serene the kingdom of the deep remains,
holding the growiing and the still,
the living, dying and the dead.
Beneath the waves in sunken grottos is aroused
Him and Her, the majesties of this deep.
Their castle is a glitter with the sharp shards,
of jewelled sceptres and worn rosaries,
built on bones, but made of hopes,
and quiet inner dreams.
She the consort queen calls to my hidden mind,
calling me to tell those luring lies,
that have beckoned all my kind to her before.
She is the monarch of the siren calls,
the royal we of that fertile tribe.
I must go to her, though my mind sees her,
and knows it not.
She offers me the light that is in the darkness,
for the unspoken words that have dwelled within me since almost I was made.
These orbs upon which half is written, but all
all will be unspoken, without you.
For it is for you that they have waited
that I have waited,
that all has waited,
for you to heed her beckon'ed call
and enter into,
my inner sea.
Now your turbluence grows to fever frenzy,
and the tide of my desire on which
your ship will sale,
flows, floods and flourishes.
The hairs, like reeds, whip and lash my inner lips,
your hands grasp, a mariner like all men,
my rounded hips, and gripping them to tight response,
I am your vessel. Use me as you will.
As you must. For it must be.
The pressure grows upon me,
and strokes the stoking flowing of inner rivers
the blood which ripens all my body,
though I can feel it only by inflection,
and see it on your faces reflection.
The tide has come and the ship must sail,
its flag flown more proudly than any banner,
its course repeated traced.
My flesh feels the the curls upon your chest,
that grind upon my nipples and my breasts,
oh how I am smooth blank page for this,
the passion writ on waters deep.
My time and tides that come as blood were for this,
my river of passion brings me this floating bliss,
I am beyond half the words I know,
bidden by the consort queen and her undertown.
She the siren screech is in my ears,
drowning logic and drenching fears.
Of all the calculation of my life in rhymes,
the seem like delays to this rape sublime.
Not of you of me, but of the overwhelming coming
of my inner sea.
Oh how it embraces you as I spasm,
locked in eternal instant of hanging need,
to be owned by this ocean now my only creed.
I know that weeks ago I ceased to prevent,
what now I feel annealing as your passion spent.
In that moment, this burned away,
the person who awoke that other day,
we have passed away from sight of virgin lands,
and guided by your rod and hammer,
pushed and forced by hidden hands.
Oh to be, oh to be, forever voyaging,
on this inner sea.
Nothing of my soul to slave,
to be yours only, and destiny's slave.
The consort queen mocks me, as she always will
as I clench thee, hold thee,
in this warm morning still
my spirit reaches for that old fantasy,
of my cup monthly emptied, and lifetime filled.
Oh dear, come to me,
and journey upon my inner sea.
Then in your face I see Him,
the ocean's crowned king,
and all the terrors that he brings.
That to live here adrift in this awful plane
will mean muteness now, forever more.
He. Not him but Him and He,
now towers to blot the sun and bury me,
he is the god that all women fear,
the one that stalks us through bitter years,
and bend us on our dainty knees,
for him alone for our mouths to please.
He would rob us of our essence and our soul,
and reduce us only to that role,
that costume of silks and chains
which Pentuach fetish is made.
He spears me, with you merely as the trident prong,
it was his plan here, all along.
His consort queen did call me to this place,
and set me upon his ancient race.
Must it be? Must it be?
Are we forever lost, on my inner sea?
My body once etheral in your hands,
dreaming of those distant sunlit lands,
now aches to be free of this and you,
to have this voyage dissolve to dew.
The flows that fissure within me now become
like molten rock frozen by what is come.
Wretched my salt soaked hair is stung,
and clings to my forehead and sticks my eyes.
The consort queen has bought me cheaply with her lies.
She calls to you, and bids you to set the bow,
to open waters furrowed by many ship-wreaked prows.
Even as this fear intensely holds,
your body still tangled in my folds,
your face still ponding in my eyes,
our ears still echoing with my cries.
The cries that gave me body to your seed,
and filled me with sated need.
They are the screeches of the carrion birds,
that now will strip my soul from my life,
and flesh from my bones,
and sink me into the warm wet depth,
of castled consort queen,
and trident monarch's breathes.
They two laugh at it, and us, and me,
to have dared with mind this unminding sea.
Must it be? Must it be?
Am I this prisoner of my inner sea?