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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=476977" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>This Late In The Day</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This late in the day, could I love you, could you<br>love me? If I made a black rose of my blood, <br>redshifting into the dark, and gave it to you, <br>not knowing what to expect, would you counter-intuit <br>the wounded watershed of the poetic imagery? <br>Younger I was a lot more dangerous than I am now, <br>though I wasn't trying to be. Dragons raged in me <br>in infernal crusades of the bad against the worst<br>as I stood at the flaming gates of the vulnerable <br>and said to their worst nightmares you shall not pass. <br>I used my horns and scales to empower the innocent, <br>trying to turn a curse into a virtue, the atrocities<br>of the left-handed legacy of my condemned childhood<br>into something even a stranger might be proud of. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">In Zen it's said that nobody likes a real dragon <br>and even among those I came to the rescue of <br>like a Viking long boat with runes like scars <br>chiselled into stone, and well-seasoned swords <br>that backed up my word down to the very least detail, <br>even among the exiles who felt compelled to love me, <br>even among those who didn't want to be seen <br>as hypocrites of their fashionable memes if they didn't, <br>I could see people backing away from me <br>like an expanding universe running on dark energy <br>and that was ok, I was raised to bite the bullet <br>whenever my heart was liberated by amputation. <br>Free of me, I am unencumbered by concern.<br>I can solo in the night skies I return to without fear <br>of estranging the stars with my intensities. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now there's more mage than king in my immensities, <br>and time, sorrow and death have blunted my edge <br>like broken glass rounded in the turmoil of the tides <br>and Merlin has returned Excalibur to the Lady of the Lake, <br>I feel more like a rodeo clown in a barrel <br>with a funny hat, a painted tear, and a flower on my head, <br>a floppy poppy in red, trying to turn the crescents <br>of the moon bull on me like a Mayan calendar<br>to keep from goring the fallen who were mounted <br>above me like heroes that took a fall. A dragon <br>sheds its deathmasks like petals of the moon. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So if I presented myself to you as I am <br>could you learn to love an enlightened buffoon<br>with the injured nobility of a distinguished demon<br>guarding a small boy's notion of doing <br>some good in the asylum of the raving world, <br>intrigued with the urgency of innocence <br>to redeem itself like a mutant gene in the fuse <br>of an occult chromosome that's always <br>about to go off like a bomb buried <br>in the Milky Way of a fanatical supernova? <br>Was a time I'd hang the heads of my enemies <br>like Al Ghoul from my earlobes if they dared <br>to threaten anything I loved that couldn't defend itself.<br>Was a time I'd start a fight at my own funeral <br>just to stand up for someone when I couldn't. <br>Now I'm hemorrhaging like amaranthus <br>on an infernal summer day and my heart <br>is a coal bin of all the things I used to be<br>and there's more tears in the diamonds than blood. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I don't dip my pen in the trough of the world, <br>and I don't shepherd wolves to graze on the mountain. <br>Even when space turns to glass, and water leaks out <br>of the reactor like a constrictor from an aquarium <br>I endure the inverted question marks <br>of the hooks I hang on in a deep freeze <br>as if just to endure were to spite in spades <br>the cruelty of conditions taking their natural course. <br>Seven come eleven, but I can look at things <br>through the snake eyes of frost bitten dice <br>and not end up piping on a stone flute. <br>I was born standing in the doorway of an exit <br>that glowed red at night like a miscarriage of the light<br>but still the road sign of a back way out of hell. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">So if I wrote you a poem you couldn't understand<br>would you exalt in your power to unman me <br>or would you feel the tenderness of the beast <br>behind the eclipse of the black lion that wears <br>the corona of the sun for a mane, a sunspot for a face? <br>Would you trust that the darkness is full of eyes <br>and some are hunting you, and some are shy<br>in your presence like wolves that have been shot at <br>because they're wild and as cunning as life? <br>Would you bait the meat with poison in a leg hold trap<br>or would you defang me into affability <br>and teach me to lower my voice when the moon was full? <br>Would we lie in the same bed with a sword between us? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could befriend your fireflies. I could mitigate your thorns. <br>I could get behind whatever you dream <br>like dark matter behind a light filled universe<br>and when you were sad, let the rain play my scales <br>like a harpischord or a guitar with a black hole <br>in the middle of it I would descend into<br>like an Orphic underworld to sing you back to life. <br>I would lift all my taboos for you and give you<br>an exemption in the night to approach me as you wish <br>and even if your hand weren't brave enough to ask <br>I would fill it full of jewels with magic properties <br>that tempt the thieves of light to risk the labyrinths<br>of the inviolable graves on the dark side of the moon.<br>I would beatify you like a grail in a secret society <br>of warrior saints that haven't had a drink in years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And if your chandeliers ever had a nervous breakdown <br>in a lightning storm, I would dig up the bulbs <br>of the crystal skulls I buried in your garden for next year <br>and let you talk to them yourself about your fears <br>of what's to come, and how to heal the shattered <br>with the dark clarity of compassionate crazy wisdom<br>drifting on the oceans of your tears <br>like a hydra-headed lifeboat empty but for you. <br>I would plunder spiritual islands in the wake <br>of extinct volcanoes to bring you <br>the rarest herbs of insight prophecy could afford <br>to see you dancing again like a constellation <br>rising over my event horizon with no fear of the abyss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I could do this, I would be this, and will and more <br>and mean it if you'd let me. I could be the quicksilver<br>water of life and you could be the white sulphur <br>substance of the great work, its spirit and activity. <br>Or the other way around, if you like, given I was born <br>on a Wednesday with wings on my heels and head. <br>I could be the dragon trickster, infernal and divine <br>the hermaphroditic hidden secret <br>buried in the earth, creature of fire and air, <br>and you could be the salt, the anima mundi, <br>the philosopher's stone, the light of the soul, <br>the wisdom that gives life and energy their forms, <br>mistress of the planets and the stars, the divine energy <br>that moves all things around to bring things about. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What an experiment we'd make, what an art, <br>what a conjunction of life and love and bodyminds<br>what signs we could reveal, what prophecies scry, <br>what freedoms take we could be burned at the stake for.<br>And the sand paintings we could pour through an hourglass <br>that would blow away like the dust of the road<br>and the comets that fell from their black halo<br>around the sun, and the lifting of waterbirds <br>in the pewter moonlight feathered on a lake <br>we could observe, and the scores of new constellations<br>we could form like new houses of an alternative zodiac<br>for the dispossessed stars of the homeless <br>burning their hearts out around oil drums under bridges<br>that span them like the Egyptian sky goddess Nut, <br>and the poems that would flow like spiritual transfusions<br>into the carnal bloodbanks of the burning rose <br>with a needle exchange of thorns, and the transmutations <br>of base metal into gold and back again, of dragonflies <br>gleaming like anthracite in the birth fluids of their chrysales<br>drying the filigreed silver of their wings in the sun, <br>paper clipped to the waterlilies like pencils behind their ears, <br>and the light years of passion and devotion <br>this would take to be done in unison, in chaos, <br>in wonder and bliss, in fingertips, eyes, skin and lips, <br>two alchemists in the Vas Hermeticum of a conceivable abyss.</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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love me? If I made a black rose of my blood, 
redshifting into the dark, and gave it to you, 
not knowing what to expect, would you counter-intuit 
the wounded watershed of the poetic imagery? 
You..."></div>
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