the ballad of the black sun

A wind blows through the body
of woman. It seeks its way through her
ear, diffuses, and transports her into
the rift that holds the black sun in
store.
She comes to herself, as the wind
transforms itself into the music of the
night, into music that washes flushes
her body, into music that unleashes the
barrage to memory’s billowy stormy
ocean, and the body starts, with a smile
of recognition.
She wakes by music streaming
through her, dispersing a prism of
colours translucent, of shimmering
avocado green and orange yellow, of
deep indigo and soft purple, of shining
sun and crimson red, and her body sings
in the dark of the night
She wakes, sweating, pushing, her
skin tickling and pricking and the waters
running along her legs, and
she gives birth to another, another
that comes to her under the wings of an
eagle, a lion-bear standing on its hind
legs, listening to the surging of tones
with its senses free, filled with the force
of the surge.
She laughs. In the surge salamanders dance.
The number nine comes to her
at the beginning end of the rainbow, and
the rift that holds the black sun in store
opens further deeper into the
dreamworld’s ocean.
She sinks into surging tones, There,
there a newly awake
carbuncle peeps alert
over the edge of a silver-coloured
lotus boat, and the placenta is 
ejected.
Relieved she lies sprawling
on her back, flinging her arms in a
billowing roar of laughter,
when a silver heron lifts from
inside the bosom. It flies
a path and lands again in the music
of the night.
Then, a man stands there, in front of her,
and the day blossoms into a lily of
iridescent colours as the music of the
night flows out of his hands; music that
washes through her innermost recesses,
that cleanses the one who once was, flows
over her body.
She hears all hesitance give way; she
hears how longing is set free; she
hears a woman man being born
out of the darkness of the night.
She feels her him being born
out of the hands of the man;
she feels him play inside of her,
under her skin, and she loses
herself in the longing of the surging
tones, in its joy and in its
melancholy.
At last! dreams dance in out of the
forecourt to her being. At last, 
she says Yes! and reclaims land
lain fallow. She says Yes! and a cosmic
thrust flashes through her house. She says
Yes! and enjoys land forgotten.
And she is taken by irresistible desire to
sing a blues of her own, of irresistible
yearning to write the desire that fills her
body to its shattering breaking point.
She is raptured by the orgasmic
pleasure that travels through the body
when you come, to yourself. She is
one erogenous zone that dreams
of catching the evasive absent in
cascades of colours; she dreams
of catching the body’s rhythms
of fire and sulphur in images
of sounds and words.

And
In the dream’s naked footsteps

friar’s lanterns
will-o’-the-wisps
jack-o’-lanterns
all alight.

Iridescent colours,
polyphonic
images of words,
rhythms of fire.