To the Sconces

 To the sconces

With their phallic filament-middled bulbs

With their labial flows of upturned glass

Each bit one, as in a sexless amalgam of

All that is sensual, no deviation

No dichotomy

Sconces that weep for one another

Are wept for

Weeping powdered light

Light so moving that even the stained glass

Is left in envious frenzy when it knows its warmth

The sconces beg the unaccustomed eye to see

To see and feel again like newborn babes

Seeing and holding that sight, clutching it

Holding, allowing it to hold one back

Asking not for or why, only whispering bitter something’s

Invocating and rending minds

Beauteous and somehow not so,

Somehow bringing light in from out

Making more black in corners born from black

Leaving all corners formless, fleshless, bloodless

Calling to darkness to end its foreboding bluff

Mourning cracking glass and dying filament

Pudendum growing grey and old

Untouched in its aging stress

To the sconces I say thanks

Welcome me in to your light

Make a moth of me

Dangle there, I’ll flit around and spasm

Knocking my soft head against you

Let me die by you

Kill me with unwavering acceptance

Touch me while you kill and kiss me

Bring me in close enough

To smell wet breath and hover over me

Move my head so that I’m not blinded

So that I can see what you cannot

So that I can be a vessel for you

For your light, for the darkness you create

Let it all be one, in burst let me die

Carry me with your brilliance, drop me in ignorance

I will not scream, but I will gibber

Nothing can come from me without you

Burn inside me, render me ever loving

Passion in your filaments, contained by your glass

Spilling out shamelessly, caressing anybody that you meet

Unabashed fingers twitching madly over hot skin

Never mind the gender, never mind the nerves

Keep whispering your something’s, bitter and bright


Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

One Thought on “To the Sconces

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