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Collaboration: James Swartz, LadyLabyrinth





"Scorpion"




Lack of water leads to lack of life
exposed beneath the Sun like blood
from the tip of a Scorpion’s tail

Corporal attitudes aligned in spaces
battle demented servitude in spotlights
stroking the sights of a symbolic death

Lack of want leads a woman
with her life burning, her all exposed
beneath the Sun

Thirsting true South, Venus Trap exotic 
dripping honey ripe to taste, an orchid purple like a plum 
there swept up in torrid heat, a wet monsoon spreads its wait 

Tropic of Capricorn, is the sweet Hell he worships
offering the tip of a Scorpion’s tail
at the alter of her Rosy Crucifixion

Bullets bite into the blood spilled
from the tip of the Scorpion's tail
washing the pain from the spine

Clots form like clouds shot from
the barrel of a big black hole
as time swallows the cost of life

In the poverty of his mind
Calvary is godless, she shows no mercy
in the movement of her quake

Bullets from her mouth exchanged upon his tongue
sliding fingers to write words along a tight spine
Tropic of Capricorn reads his fate, she held it all along

The Scorpion’s tail, scorching harpsichord
played by lips for want of life to seed
on torn sheets, stain pages of Egyptian cotton

Saving souls and graces now far too late
For the true lovers, sanguine sinners
in danger of being forgotten

Silent sentences read, given two to Life 



(LadyLabyrinth/James Swartz, 2019)








"All my Calvaries were rosy crucifixions, pseudo-tragedies to keep the fires of hell burning brightly for the real sinners who are in danger of being forgotten." 
Henry Miller, Tropic of Capricorn



“There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don't work. He was now in that state of fire that she loved. She wanted to be burnt.”
Anais Nin 



“The one thing we can never get enough of is Love. And the one thing we never give enough of is Love. A book lying idle on a shelf is wasted ammunition.” 
Henry Miller



“I want to love you wildly. I don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. A piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.”
Anais Nin
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