Corona: a Prose Poem

Four AM - Aristotle: A is A, there is no B; Plato: A is B, the A is false. Plato’s B realm is queenly. Aristotle denies its existence. I know the B realm exists, and it is reality: the one, the self, the good, the God. It is the reflexive of self, the mirror likeness seen in the pool, what Narcissus sees and adores. It is the full moon that reflects sunlight, absorbs it, takes it, covets it, loves it. It is the man in the moon, the moon on the man. I’ve shorn the veil from the blue sky and felt my heartbeat reverse itself from trochee to iamb, iamb, iamb > i AM the Iamthon, the abhorred son of the life god Iam and his mortal wife. I am the sun imprisoned in the sky because my rage is great, my phallus bright, my lust insatiable. Offer me your maidens? well, I take the moon for my lover-boy. Cupid, parent with Psyche of Sensuality, knock your dart and release it at the moon, all mine, surrounded by a fathomless vault of black. I would be loved by my Adonis in the dark. Intoxicate my sweetheart that when we next eclipse, the earth be obscured with dread that turns to joy when the corona she beholds. The crown, the nimbus round the royal coupling, becomes a ring of weddings yet to bless.

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