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If I follow the tarot’s poetica I will be coaxed into confessing my funereal disposition. An atmospheric melodrama, otherwise invisble to naked eye, plucked from my choked-throat-turned-swollen, to be placed by my homo yearning into the palm of my hand, so I can give it to God, so it might be redeemed.
To be sure, the love of men is an invisible spectacle, a gordian knot bound by the melancholia of brutish violence. What card can I pull to pull the men of war-torn children into my graveyard? What metaphysical conundrum must I meditate to resurrect the celestially departed?
When I shuffle my cards for them to fall sprawled all out on the carpet, I know the rain will soon resume. How sudden the turn!
Think of the Hanged man, suspended for however long, for millenia, for only a fraction of a second, briefly emitting the brightest photon, even after death. I linger as long as possible in this incandescence.
My cards are a balsamic blue moon weeping with the light of all my nameless lovers…all the men who couldn’t survive the night of rebellion. In the biome of my longing I am forced to watch. All them died before my love could work its electrolysis and un-rust the bloodshed, remake them humane, gentle, caring. A lonely heart denied a beloved wants only to bleed out.
Death is a lover listening to the river. It prays, cleanse my cravings. In the dead of winter, Death is douching while II Hands II Heaven plays in the bedroom aglow in the neon pink and blue of an atomic blonde. This ass is desperate to be given sociological attention, to no longer be attracted to men, or to die young, naked and in the arms of my man softly mouthing the sluttiest, most romantic things I’ve always wanted to hear. Death is his quiet mouth, sobered, rushing past all the slurred words he left inside me last night. Death tastes like dirt. Death is the dying hope of the present. Death is trying to convince the other I am loveable.
Dear reader, to write against the unwritability of grief I offer you this tarot spread. Its an invitation to conjure love like you conjure the dead. If you try the spread, let a lonely girl know.
