Don’t Read This

 
 
Don’t read this.
 
Two beers and always i’m drunk, thinking
on stone-carved milk, pouring
from a bowl, the chapel where
he sat, crying.
 
But he’s not in this story, except
with the feather, crying
blood from his forehead, staining
the time before you left.
 
There’s a cock in the desert which fits.
 
 
An enemy would impale you on his sword, instead.
 
Walk over concrete, thinking
of milk, of bread, of raining
when She first stood, smiling
and nothing is the same.
 
You’re sleeping on another’s bed. His smell gets you drunk, because you know what his sweat tastes like, skin no longer yours to taste
 
and this is okay.
 
Two beers and drunk, walking
across stones which remember, past
the tree where He sat laughing, and
you are nothing of the same
 
Don’t read this.
 
The dead cling and laugh, smiling
pepper paste and all.  The bowl looking like
blood, and you, talking
 
don’t say this.
 
Along the stream crows came to watch you leave,
crows come to wonder what’s next,
and you know you’ve not long and
anyway you smile.
 
A man fits you in the desert, sleeping
and others oddly grateful. You’ve returned
and you should fucking
shut the fuck up.
 
At the pine and fir you stood, saying
I’ve seen this all.  Hello. And
this wends into that, thinking
 
don’t write this.
 
 

About Rhyd Wildermuth

An intractable tea-swilling punk, queer hooligan, and dream-soaked leftist bard, Rhyd Wildermuth has left bits of his heart(h) everywhere—in a satyr’s den in Berlin, hanging from an elder tree over a holy well in Bretagne, scattered in back alleys of Seattle, and lost somewhere in the bottom of his rucksack. He’s devoted to Welsh gods, breathes words, makes candles, plays recorder, fumbles with tech, and refuses ever to learn to drive. His main blog is: paganarch.com. View all posts by Rhyd Wildermuth

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