Love-Craft

I glimpsed my Love’s other face,
a visage out of Time and Space
while exploring her outer voids
with a craft through the asteroids,
and seeing those gulfs I went mad,
or else, in the afterglow I was sad,
yet she soon smiled again at me
with the human face I wished to see—
it is hard to love what is so unfeeling,
but what choice have I, her glamour peeling?
I must gaze upon her prettier side,
never where her dark truths hide
or I will fall prey to the vertiginous whirl
of her truths, my inhuman girl
and hag, as well, and witch beyond—
mother from which we have all spawned.
There are predators beloved in her heart
that would gladly tear me apart,
and every bug, too, and microbe, amoeba,
for she is fickle as the Queen of Sheba,
but mostly her bosom is empty, cold,
the gulfs of space without form or mold,
her chest expanding with a Big Bang Breath
until Entropy brings about her death,
yet for all such Space, no safe spaces
for creeds, religions, or any races.
She is just as likely to destroy the earth
as let us live for eons in peace and mirth;
she has her tantrums, yet they are indifferent
as if her fury is never really felt or meant
as she throws her random meteor showers
or vomits lava when her stomach sours
or swallows planetary systems whole
in the pregnancy hunger of a black hole.
Whore and horror, mother and wife—
with her, there is Death, without her, no Life.
And so I must work on learning to love
what is beautiful and terrible, below and above.

Epigrams For Luminaries 1

Jorge Luis Borges
He stumbled through a labyrinth without walls,
blind, as we all are, as he walked those twisting halls.

Virginia Woolf
She rode her stream of consciousness wherever it went
until she sank in the waves, pockets full of rocks and sediment.

Charles Dickens
His expectations were not great at the start of his life,
but they grew more expansive, as did, too, his wife.

Douglas Adams
He did not throw in the towel—rather it unfurled
as he hitchhiked elsewhere, to another world.

Philip Larkin
He sang a song to the gloomy morning hues
when all he wanted was to listen to Jazz and the Blues.

Ambrose Bierce
As a lexicographer he sought to define many a word
from the perspective of the Devil, so as to not be absurd.

Anne Sexton
It was not a fairytale life for someone of her kind,
so she hopped in the car to leave it all behind.

Sylvia Plath
She had Nazi boots always pressing down on her chest
and marched herself into an oven, wanting to rest.

Terry Pratchett
Though a jester, he disliked drama, as does Death,
and so he merely nodded upon taking his final breath.

Diana Wynne Jones
Not always living a charmed life, she still wove magic
to transmogrify resplendent joy from what was tragic.

Robert E Howard
He imagined himself better, a throneless barbarian king,
and crowned himself with a pistol when he tired of living.

HP Lovecraft
He dreamt of horrors lurking in every sphere
and died, eventually, of a lurking fear.

Edgar Allan Poe
His career was buried prematurely before he hit his stride,
fame meeting him on the Plutonian shore like a deathbed bride.

MR James
Like an academic scrapbook, his life seemed a bit dull
so he inserted into it mezzotints most diabolical.

Sheridan Le Fanu
How dark with murk was his drinking glass,
through which his green Irish tea came to pass.

Flannery O’ Connor
Lupus reminded her that faith was not a friendly dog,
but a wolf that hunted you through the dismal fog.