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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476505" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Better To Flash A Sharp Knife Quickly</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Better to flash a sharp knife quickly across someone's throat <br>as the last remaining mercy <br>than bludgeon them to death retroactively as you do. <br>The first is just another big city workaday murder on the nightshift <br>but the way your offended sense of righteous indignation <br>has turned to hate <br>as you sit there sliding needles into your arm <br>like loveletters into a bruised envelope <br>you've addressed in blood to yourself<br>I can tell you're sticking pins into the eyes <br>of black madonna voodoo dolls <br>deep inside a secret hiding place in your childhood <br>where you indoctrinate them into genocide.<br>You're a beautiful woman with lots to hide <br>and I don't want to know where the corpses are<br>as if the only intimacies worth caring about <br>were all long buried in this desert of stars.<br>And twice before I've tasted the blood of the black widow <br>and yes it may be sweetened <br>by all the butterflies it's eaten <br>but then your heart goes numb as an ice-cube <br>in the fix at the end <br>that comes on like an eclipse <br>of the light at the end of the tunnel<br>where all your dead relatives <br>are dying to greet you again.<br>I wear my heart on my sleeve <br>like the colours of the ghetto I was born into <br>to watch my mother die of overwork for nothing <br>of any estimable value including me <br>when I look at it from her point of view. <br>And I like the sexy West Coast sixties look <br>of those black Stevie Nicks Gothic spider webs <br>you wear more like skin <br>than the net of Indra <br>with jewels at every intersection. <br>And I've always been tempted and still am <br>by dangerous pariahs on the lamb <br>from the witch-hunts of medieval men <br>who fear a female messiah <br>that can cast her nets wider <br>than any constellation<br>among the fishers of men. <br>And o sweetness don't doubt yourself. <br>It's still a cheap thrill to feel so sublimely vulnerable <br>daring the taboo event horizons of your powers<br>like a firefly going eye to eye with a blackhole <br>even as I bend space to stay clear as a gravitational lens. <br>But you're hooked on your own elixirs <br>like a dealer who wants to get out of it <br>on his own product<br>and in my world magic shoots the stars <br>like whitewater in the Ottawa River <br>in the spring run off in May <br>when the toxins wear off like cataracts<br>and you get high on the risk for free<br>in the name of sick children <br>waiting for heart transplants. <br>And yes, yes, yes, there's still a Neanderthal in me <br>that wants to paint your face <br>in carbon and red ochre<br>on the inside of my witchdoctor's mask <br>to make all this space seem <br>a lot less lonely in here<br>since I killed off the last cave bear. <br>I could so easily encrypt my starmaps <br>on the mystic enigmas of the dice <br>I've carved like small Kaabas <br>and Rubik's cubes out of my own bones<br>to see if the nightbird calling out to you<br>in this mutual darkness of ours<br>were worth taking the chance<br>if it should happen to come up snake eyes. <br>Or if I could learn to be hypnotized<br>without turning to stone <br>by a Pythian priestess <br>with a Medusan hairdo<br>with oracular highlights that bite<br>and you could learn to dance<br>to the picture-music <br>of a different kind of flute<br>like Salome for Herod <br>and John the Baptist's head.<br>Love doesn't begin where lust leaves off. <br>The expense of spirit in a waste of shame.<br>I think that's only true for those who are no good at it. <br>Or dominated by a spiritual Gestapo <br>that makes the body wear a yellow star. <br>Three phases of the moon. <br>Maiden. Mother. Crone. <br>I've seen the spider with its crescent fangs. <br>And I've hung from my own spine more than once <br>like a mummified fly on a trophy line <br>waiting for my next afterlife <br>assuming I had one <br>and Merlin I may seem to you <br>but I still fear a starless power darker than my own.<br>And there's the maiden like Morgana la Fay<br>beguiling as lunar waterlilies and deadly nightshade<br>renewing her virginity in a snake pit. <br>The urge to possess you overwhelms <br>the certainty of being bit.<br>One fang kills you. <br>The other fang cures it. <br>But even death eventually wears out its welcome <br>and the spring isn't enough to make up for it. <br>But where's the middle extreme <br>defined by the other two? <br>Where's the mother? <br>Where's the summer<br>that warms the bloodstreams of the garden snakes <br>like water in a basking hose? <br>Spring and winter <br>but where's the harvest moon <br>that shines down on the fullness of life<br>and adds her mother lode to the gold of the grain<br>like Demeter in the Eleusinian Mysteries<br>adding little mushrooms of gratified desire <br>to the wine you only need to drink once<br>out of your own skull <br>to stay intoxicated forever? <br>Prosperpine may have gone down into the underworld <br>to shoot jewels with the dead<br>when a serpent bit her in the heel<br>like a dirty syringe<br>but when is she going to live up <br>to the rest of her myth <br>and drive the snakes out of her garden <br>long enough for a rose bush or two to take root again? <br>You leave two kids at home alone <br>with a couch-surfing crackhead <br>you met in a bar last weekend <br>and you expect me to trust you? <br>Lady I can look through you <br>like a broken windowpane <br>and still appreciate the beauty of the view<br>without cutting myself on the flint knapped glass <br>and yes you can still cast a spell <br>that can turn seasoned sailors into swine<br>and I could so easily <br>buy into any delusion you wanted me to <br>just to sleep with you. <br>But I'm standing at that window with your kids <br>and there's a crackhead behind us <br>flipping channels like cards in a game of solitaire <br>and we're looking out at the view together <br>pretending none of us are there <br>because we're all scared<br>of the cranky stranger with the tarantula tattoo<br>and all we can see as far as we can look to get away <br>is this mindscape of you <br>salting the flesh of the good earth<br>like Carthage on crystal meth <br>when you should be planting seeds <br>in the hearts and minds of those <br>who look to you for love<br>like a chance to flower <br>even on long starless nights<br>to live without fear<br>unmenaced by shadows <br>swarming the night light <br>like a seance of anti-matter.<br>You belong to those who love you in life <br>and blood may be thicker than water <br>but without water <br>it coagulates like a rose that's lost its colour.<br>It makes raisins of the grapes on the vine<br>long before their time <br>as if someone cancelled summer <br>and no one gets to taste the wine.<br>And it's probably wise<br>to pour both into the cauldron of your heart <br>until they're both so intermingled <br>the rain doesn't put<br>the scarlet desires <br>and phoenix fires<br>of the passionate poppies out <br>and the hot-blooded gypsy witches <br>don't turn the rain to steam <br>on first contact with their skin.<br>We're standing at a broken window <br>and we're looking in <br>and what we see is that in you <br>there is no summer <br>and where blood should be thicker than water <br>the water's turned to ice <br>and the two rosebuds <br>standing like your daughters at this window<br>like two cut flowers in a shattered vase<br>are haemorrhaging like too much turpentine<br>on two brushes loaded with red paint <br>too thin to bloom. <br>Because the ladybug<br>is too busy playing with matches<br>trying to get a rise out of the fire-hydrants<br>to see if she's still the arsonist she used to be <br>to know when her own house is on fire<br>her kids are alone <br>and it's time to fly away home.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476505" data-title="Better To Flash A Sharp Knife Quickly de Patrick White" data-description="Better to flash a sharp knife quickly across someone's throat 
as the last remaining mercy 
than bludgeon them to death retroactively as you do. 
The first is just another big city workaday murder on the nightshift 
but the way your offended sense..."></div>
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