Memory IV

Memory IV

“Too true, too true,”
she whispers in her cold way,
her boiling old way, her true-blue and sold way.
“Too true…”

And I, I am like a quivering daisy chain,
full of green and yellow anticipation.
I strew, or no, link my self’s mind together;
Dixie Blues are clinking on an old player piano.
Seeing her slow eyes again, I rinse myself with spices—
for the blood-boil—
and put this old scrumptious dalliance on the slow burner,
thick potatoes and carrots swirling in the brew.
“But this between us will lead us only to more
and deeper dripping poison and despair.”

“Too true, too true,” she whispers.
I hold up my arms
and let myself be tied with snakes to the bedpost,
paid penance to the old gods.
As she holds the cup to keep and catch the poison from my head,
all that remains is my trickster’s voice,

“I would like you to listen:
“I would like you to hear,
“to understand these cold words of mine
“that will glitter and sparkle off the end of my tongue
“when my foes unchain the children of my soul:
“the wolf, the dragon, the hungry maid.
“But they haven’t yet—have patience!
“I keep waiting and sighing and spying and clicking and spinning and wilting and weeping:
“now there is nothing but my silence,
“my wicked silence that hurts you so…”

Too true, too true and her eyes are leaking tears,
but I feel pity only for myself.

“Wicked? No not wicked, that goes too far, too
“too far. Far beyond the reasonable, far beyond intuition and of grief.
“Far beyond the boiling hams and bouncing tree fairies.”

I wonder if I actually said that, for she hums in a pleasing way,
and places her tight lips upon my face. “Too true,
too true.”

“Replace wicked with frightened and old. Or tricky:
“that’s the silence you have.
“I have. Me. A frightened old silence.
“A tricky frightened silence.
“It’s time you listened and heard my silence truly.
“Truly, for what it is.”

She seems to be hearing me,
her tongue is dripping slow circles along my chest.
I can feel her cold fingers drag shivers down my side.
She stops. Looks long into my eyes:
“Too true, too true,”
and cuts my tongue between her teeth.

“Ahh. You’ve lived too long in a short space,
“I think your ends want to outgrow the short space of time,
“but they shrivel instead. It’s time you…
“it’s really time you…
“it’s got to be time you…
“thought it’s not too late you…
“Ahhh… it’s past time you danced your new self back into being
“so that those dear ones, those frizzled and delightful
“loves may hold you close once more
“spiral you around with glee, laughing in the sun.”

“Too true, too true.”
I feel this bodybody thrumming from head to foot
as her breath rushes slowly in my ear
and she finds the all-center of my desire.
Sharp pain lances through my wrist,
up my thin and withered arm
unto the throbbing hollow in my chest.

“Look… ahhh…
“You gaze too long into this tiring, soul-gutting
“mind-splintering gulf. Please.
“No. Please. Wait.”
This is too… I can’t… I didn’t think…


I am gone.
She is gone.
Acid splashes on my face.
The snakes wrap tighter about my throbbing arms.


This poem was explicitly about Loki originally, who didn’t end up well in the old Norse mythology. Here’s a picture of the scene. Also, I guess, I was working through some thoughts and feelings about a bad, sudden but also lingering break-up. I think I was a little harsh. :) But hey, I’m gonna plead youth here. I was gonna write some more about this weird impulse of pastMe to map personal breakdowns onto mythic stuff, but I think I’ll just leave it at that.

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