The Voice of Lethe


Come sing to me in a voice that makes me vulnerable. What are you waiting for? Let me here your contralto voice which enters my ears like a silken thread; which leaves me hungry and thirsty ; I cannot move while you sing, cannot survive while I hear your soft piercing voice. My loyalty to you is black and white, unlike your loyalty to me which comes in different shades of grey. My history of you will always be one. You will remember through different filters and lenses, through the discourse of a hero, through the discourse of a criminal, through all discourses known to man.

You keep me prisoner with your enchanting voice which pokes at my past and makes me remember things lost, things regretted and things yearned for. I have seen the bad and the ugly and I have enjoyed it, until I substituted it all with you and your voice. I broke free from one prison to enter another. You are my prison made flesh, and I am held accountable.

I sit on the floor between your legs. My head pressed and held by your legs, and you sing. I can sense your vibrations coming from within you; I can sense your immense breath being released poetically and magically. You close my eyes with your round, black painted fingertips as you make me hear that song you sing. Close your eyes you tell me and my eyes are close. Meet me there, you tell me and I try to go to the other side, to the abstract prison. Remember, remember how I found you, remember how I saved you, remember how much you owe me, you tell me. Remember all the years which you have wasted, know how many years I saved for you. Close your eyes and see your past again, and you sing about my past.

I came in through the door at morning ten
I found you lying in an opium den.
So innocent, rosy and pink were you,
You opened your eyes and I saw right through
Black pupils and a cry for earnest help,
Your hand rested lightly like floating kelp.

I held your bloodless hand so serenely,
Lift’d your body, frail, pale, and heavenly
Held your head, loose, flimsy and deranged,
Brought my mouth to your ear, forever pained,
Whispered a soft song of fortune and fame,
Both of us, dancing round a murky  flame.

My nightingale tune, nev’r busy to sway
Young hearts towards mine; lost ships finding bay.
My nightingale tune, always best to say,
“Thou art my slave, your job is to obey.”

You sang in my ear and I was bound and harnessed forever by your voice. Away from the opium den you took me, towards an open hell, but your song did not encapsulate my past, for it missed details which you did not see nor foresee. Your lyric did not see through my fantasies, it just killed them brutally with an unwarranted wanton reflection. Your voice shakes the details away like filthy debris and stamps my past with your sung lyric. I become only what you sing, enslaved to it. I forget blood-filled needles and purple arms. I forget the smell of shit and the dampness of piss. I forget the uncared for rotting baby corpse. I forget my name, I forgot my face. I forget the taste of love and the joy of remembrance. I forget the feeling of freedom. Your song puts me in a basket, your legs carry me above Lethe like a new-born baby towards a history that does not belong to me, towards a destiny I do not crave. The details of my past life become details placed in parenthesis, skipped, not read; they become nonexistent. I know nothing except your imprisoning mantra of death, hearing it between your legs—thou art my slave, your job is to obey—as you blind me with your fingertips. Pluck out my eyes with your fingertips. Your nightingale tune plucks my kelp hand out of the water, dries it and leaves me impotent.

I forget the meaning of sex between your legs.


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