Isolde La Fleur’s MetaMorphosis~

“They slammed Jesus out of rock!”

the conversation, which was more of a drastic prayer

began thusly between myself

and the little blue flower of a girl, Isolde

 

Precariously balanced on the highest tower of sacrilege

her talons in a gryphon’s malachite spine

I, a necklace around some saint’s shoulders,

my digital recorder bound us around the disproportions of cellular matter

 

I could feel the agitation of the Bishop

pacing the scandalous ribbing inside the body of the holy place

chewing his lower plum lip, as was his character during times of oddness

waiting for my magik to destroy that which his silent lord could, or would not

 

“They killed every opportunity to bloom!”

Isolde arched her taffy spine across an ocean

pulling at my matter, elongating my inclination to follow her ire

into the pages of another dimensional oopsy

 

I am on a crescent moon,

a indigo fairy piercing my spine with thistle

pulling the pain of sacral sins

through the loop de loop of a funhouse body

as we ride a quickening metal pod, Isolde screaming

“bring in the drowned

sphere!”

and shall I dry her flooded lands with but my aprons

shall I bleed the rest of my existence into her deserted

archaic thralls of disassembling

human sticks

pick up sticks

arrange a marionette

built of every broken dream

manifested in odd mutative patterns on the backs of rattlers

“they look like human eyes!”

always screaming, my Isolde

her voice a gestational transporter

and tumble, we

tumble weeds

lost between this

and that

back into a stormy sky

above a world

dying to its own applause

 

“Watch, fairest fair of all.”

Isolde, a sudden purr, which worried me more than her shrill siren moods

crawl she does around, and out of her paper moth wings

blue stone eyes grinding a humanity between lens and fractal

 

Quickly, I covered the sideways eternity pouring space and starlight

from the hole in my chest, my mortal Uma complex at last beneficial

my katana a gleam of quicksilver, faces in metal contorting

as I, yes I, the last fairy tale to stand between the Church and UnderLands, flowered

 

Isolde’s neck opened to the clouds, her throat a pool of rain water

she laughed thunder and smiled lightning,

her body peeling skin from countless dreams stored over millennia

in the puzzle patterns of a ungirl sired by a wicked world aching to heal

 

“They slammed Jesus out of a Rock.”

I, in leather pulse,

click clack sword pouring calligraphy

coils of grace around graceless congregation

here I make my peace with rage

on bended knee, not before the Holy See

but before the Madonna

like a knight

my fingers find the pulse in the stone

and I admire how well the elders hid the seed;

I cannot help, being what I am, but smile

as Isolde, remade, bends out of stone

and steps from an altar of expectations

her robe become armour

her pain become a shield

her crown of adulations

streaming mahogany locks to her waist  . . . .

her fluctuating smile, I remember, from a nest of asps in honey Egypt

from the walls of Troy,

from the unsteady groundwork of Eden

sold in Greece

slashed in an alley

dismembered for the magik in the chromosomal dance of divine female;

on my arm I lead her

from the bones of Eden

my Isolde, my woman

into the gardens of the  feminine divine;

as it was in the  beginning of Truth

so shall it save us in the end

blessed be

Lilith

Eve

Mary

Pandora

KaliMa . . . .

 

 

 

 

copyright:2011vssmd/amusemusepress

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

from Unfairy Tales From UnderLand

in bookstores Dec.2011

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

I love the interview style set up between the narrator and the feminine icon in the form of Isolde - the tension between the poet and her subject is an interesting sub-plot to the theme. This poem is filled with the rich language of your psyche:

Isolde’s neck opened to the clouds, her throat a pool of rain water
she laughed thunder and smiled lightning,
her body peeling skin from countless dreams stored over millennia
in the puzzle patterns of a ungirl sired by a wicked world aching to heal...

I truly believe you to be the modern voice of feminism, and thank you for bringing femininity back to the cause of women's rights.

[John Jackson (El Juero)]

Your words, your sharp, Katana edged words, cut deep, and leave me smiling.
This Man is unafraid to celebrate strong Women. Thanks for inviting me.

[OT]

oh this is a brilliant write here Selene - and how did I miss it! you slip poems up undercover or something haha - the descriptions are you at your best here - the cloud in throat - the ending - the ode to the "feminine divine" - love this one!

[Tate Morgan]

A decent work I am a bit perplexed at the intricacies but trus it to be good.Keep writing

[Robin]

your pen pouring the ink of the soul , the soul of woman ..

"my katana a gleam of quicksilver, faces in metal contorting
as I, yes I, the last fairy tale to stand between the Church and UnderLands, flowered" - an epic image

your finale radiates ~ magnificent

[Ed Hart]

i stand under the outpouring of your soul kissed images and hear the clangor of the bells, of the bells bells bells....