when fire is in the brain

when fire is in the brain

there is no perfect god,

there is no rest, much discontent.

i am pulled apart

i am stretched like taffy.

my limbs are puffed with pain,

my fingers are heavy.

it’s been raining all night.

do you know why i sit here

in the shower stall

with my legs drawn up

and my fists clenched against my forehead?

it is because i never learned to walk

and i don’t know how to reach you.

maybe i can stumble through your door

and onto your lap.

it is shameful

to crawl at my age.

all the lust that has haunted my loins

on previous nights

is gone now

its energy swimming in my brain;

i see visions tonight.

you were never more beautiful.

i see you in the deep green wood

picking yellow and purple flowers.

all is fire,

only you are perfect.

these storms had ceased to come

while i stuck to books and politics,

but I had to step out

into this garden of eros 

again

and again

its perfumes have left me a madman.

i am struck down in a fit

at the garden’s gate.

i am on fire

and a whole night of rain

cannot quench my flames

do you wonder why

the night is so silent?

it’s because my fears

have sucked in all the possibilities

and left a vacuum.

my hope is like a wounded soldier

limping home from the war;

he leaves a trail of blood. 

the blood is fuel for the fire.

where i burn, are you freezing?

do you sleep bare breasted and dream naked dreams?

is the silence as painful to you as it is to me?

i want very much not to hurt you.

there is no perfect god,

there is no rest, much discontent.

fire was man’s greatest discovery.

Published in Issue #4 of Grub Street, 1970