Arif B. Prasetyo (4)

DEAD MOON PROCESSION

Stone stair:
The bridal bed of the sun and its sacrifices
At the god’s navel.
Down below:
The ritual begins.
Nine dead moons
Tie their shawls
On the waving, twitching waist
That dash against my flesh.
Down below:
The lights, the breasts of light
Hanging from the eyelashes:
An eagle snatching
With its two black wings.
A wild wild bird
Scratching my cage of desire.
Go on, you moan.
Shake it, rock it, you scream.
Far, far
In the untouchable chasm.
At its navel:
The cries and the traces
Run over each other
Crushing the souls
Under your soles:
I perish
In the labyrinth of the stones in piles:
A towering precipice
That guide you to the circle of fire
As your body purified
And I vanish.

DANCE

Your back
Is the monsoon hair hanging loosely.
The night chasm shining brightly
burned by the firestorm of your dance.
“Drink me, eat me.
Stab me with your pitch-black thing
For just a little more pain. A bright red stallion groans
Licking my body in pleasure.”
He writhes in pleasure on your back.
And you jump up and down, outraged, in heavy snorting.
A thousand worms gnawing the veins: the intricate network
Of a bruised old banyan’s root. The deathly pale heart at its end,
Trembling in terror, glimpse the angels in the bush.
And the seeds scream, their eyes open wide,
Strangled by desire
of commiting suicide.
Just a little more pain
The storm will sink into your back.
The night chasm will be in seething,
In panting, wet with light:
The drizzle of mushrooms, iron rust
And yellow butterflies.