I am the son And the heir Of a shyness that is criminally vulgar I am the son and heir Of nothing in particular
The Minotaur dreams of the past as if it were tomorrow.
Dreams of the lament of the sheet-metal worker. Lament. Lament. Lament for the thick-hide gauntlets that singe against the heat, that stiffen and split with age, as if they were still flesh. For the scratch awl and punch. The need for calibration. For the blueprint. For the malleable heart. For the brittle heart. For the shear and the press and everything sharp, tonged out on the lathe. For the give and the take of the ball-peen hammer. For the arc, struck and sustained. The sliver of fire that finds and claims for its own a piece of my flesh. For everything that is not soft, and in my life. For the meadow near Cnossus, where the hyacinth petals turn and turn out like so many palms refusing applause. Think of me, Paisphae, in your moment of cramped ecstasy.
Any thing that is liquid sounds incredible to me....