Arif B. Prasetyo (1)

AT THE CLIFF’S EDGE

Cold. The last lips that touch him. Before he vanishes
from the edge, the soaring bruised altar, from where he
tumbles, perhaps plunges, to a sea of symbols.
Spirit naked. Words weigh anchor.
Trails of troubled water. Further away from the body
that is about to fade. Like sunken galleon planks.
Buried. In a bay cemetery.
It’s true he often dreams of a prairie.
Asleep in a thick tuft of grass. Running
with iron bolted feet. Horseshoes. Arrows
and a bow on the back. And taking shelter
in the Centaurus cluster. Fluttering tents
in the south of the night sky.
South: a transit. To a higher
terminal. Perhaps more eternal.
But he also witnesses souls collapse.
Pigs. Anus broken, punched by
a roasting pole. Pierced. Through the jaw.
Like them. He’s delivered to the edge. Standing dizzy
Looking at the sea. Blue death strutting. Mad. Like glee
coronating its sacrificial victims.
He doesn’t want to remember that later a typhoon will descend
swinging harpoons in the waves. And the angel
is almost bored of waiting.
Awaiting the moment of falling. A brief moment
the change of the southern constellation
created from salt and the light of words.

SUCCUBUS

“Enough.
Stop that fever.
I know desire will crucify you
At the hour’s end.”
Then you close your eyes. Caressing a cleft
At the base. And the scent of grass diffuses
Like a magic spell spilling into an estuary.
From your gland’s shiver the rivers are drunk on carrions.
Sniffing along the valley passing through remote villages
Scattered, ruined, into the mouth of lust
At the body’s edge.
And the body’s edge, you know, is a pavilion
Protruding into another sea. Another realm, where the spirit
Bows, beheaded, enduring the sway, from the mast which screams
‘I’ll tie you, I’ll cut you’, all night
When knees seem mashed. Sky vague.
And people curse defiling filth. To smite enemies
That must perish. With pointed gaze lost
Through the nimbus.
Heaven: the rusted lock. Crimson rust stain
On decaying texture. I know. Yet desire
Won’t be vanquished.
The roots will penetrate. Smack.
Seize you in snorting
In panting
In death’s throes
That approach
“Enough.
Finish it off.
I know desire has crucified you
On my body.”