Word Games

Desire pulls that face on, the one with the
tight-lip knife-curling warrior wired on
slow-rolling ecstasy face.

"You cannot seduce seduction, little sister."

Delirium smiles, makes her own face, the
melting dripping absentmindedly endearing,
the unmindful to the shapes she creates in
the long lean lines of her fears face.

"Did I tell you how nice you look today,
Desire?" she giggles, trembling through
each of her pores and rolling backwards like
a bug, like a goldfish armored-armadillo.

Desire keeps that face, but hisherits eyes
flash amber-excited, twisting like a jagged
ball-n-chain of lightning.

"You do not need," Desire purrs, "to
tell me, Del," and hesheit could mean any
number of things by this, could mean
Delirium, could mean Delight, could mean
Delectable, and that would be well
into Desire's language (hesheit speaks
those words with that labia pink tongue
and lips like the fertile, who bleed
what for their emptiness).

(Delicate, Del-delapidate mindspace
wholesale on delapidate mindspace
myspace-yourspace invasion of space
whose mineyours, fiat money, you see
—sale, sale wholesale on your sale)

Desire's face is close and reeks of peaches,
Desire's eyes are like maple syrup and
Delirium trembles with the effort it takes not
to lick sisterbrotherother right up.

"I look nice every day," Desire breathes
across the flustered petalfish of Del's
(Dele, Delete, all those things come in time
too much too much Delirium or Delight or
Desire, Desire can be too much, too much,
too much) lips, her chapped lips set into the
shoreline contours of her face.

"You…" Del murmurs in return, turning the
many multitudes of words over in her mind,
fingers tarantella stepping up
sisterbrotherother Desire's white skin
(exposed in that way that is not quite
exposure at all, as natural as rain and fall)
"It doesn't hurt…" It's a lie, it hurts so much
to look at Desire's sleek hair and Desire's
plastique&plasticine manicured features
staring out with the haughty heavy-lidded
relaxation of an ancient dragon and hesheit
is a soldier again, dangerous beyond the
words at ladylittle Del's (Deletive,
Deleterious, Delight) disposal.

"It doesn't hurt," she whispers with the
sounds of her glossalia, the pitch wandering
across the inflections of the white road to
bedlam, "to say it anyway, Desire. It doesn't
hurt anyone but me and maybe I'm not
counting myself anymore, it doesn't hurt
you to hear it." Delirium has begun to smile;
it spreads like an infection through each of
her piecesparts.

Desire's fingers curl (serpents, serpents oh
the beauty of serpents, mother, mother,
mother knows, though Eve won't talk about
it; not anymore)
around hisherits sister's
birdbones. She should partake of more
victuals, be they foods or fears, Desire does
not care.

"I want to indulge you," Desire finds
hisheritself murmuring into the curls behind
Del's (Delacrymation, she finds herself
troubled by this so often it may as well be
her name, it may well be, she thinks)

The colors shudder across the spectrums,
settling into the far black (.045 percent,
Delirium hears from the deep, minutia is a
mania all its own)

"Indulge?" Delirium replies and shivers,
falling to cracklingbright stardust in Desire's
palms. Desire cups her there, puckers
hisherit lips and blows her back into the air
like the very beautiful vision of Delight she
once wasis.

Delirium does not feel it again, not
even for a second. Delight is a long gone
vision, just as constant and real as Delate
and Delay (delayed by your delirium
at your delight, indulgence can be that way,
funny that way, too much of anything is too
much and too much delight in desire is…)

Delirium tastes of champagne and soap
bubbles when their mouths meet and
Desire's tongue presses the ivory tusks of
her teeth, invasive and violating.

"Delectation," Desire kisses, licking her lips
for the salt of her tears.

"Delegitimize," Deliriums answers in the
scared voice of a child, it is a second
skin-nature, coming to the fore in splotchy
paints on the horizon. She's always so
filthy; caked with the dyingdeath
of the vertical dreams of the too-frightened-
(brother, brother, o brother, where art thou,
to save me from what your minions wreak
upon me(rmaids sing their siren
songs across my forehead) brother,
brother) .

She giggles (her giggles sound like
champagne and soap bubbles, popping wet
in the air. Desire thinks hesheit likes the
taste of it) and collapses, boneless and
many-legged into sisterbrotherother
Desire's swelteringly tepid embrace.

An octopus garden, they sprout jeweled
wings in many colors and Desire watches
their flight. Whimsy as much hisherits as it
is tiny blond & brunet & carrot-colored
Delirium (Deletory, Delactation, an
unsuccessful process, she still craves the
morphine-static power of what was once her
own name, Delight is dead, Delirium is
craving, shaking, sweating, for all these

"Come," Desire prompts in the rosy voice of

"You…" Delirium garbles from the beaked
mouth of a slimy purple octopus. "You love
me? Will you love me, Desire?"

(Anger is a piece and part, interchangeable,
indeed, of Desire's framework-face and it is
beautiful there as all things are beautiful
there, but anger, the conDescending anger,
is beautiful there)

Hesheit cradles sweet-sister in hisherits arms,
snowwhite arms, pure beyond the meaning
of Desire's purity (of all the ridiculous
notions, really Dormouse, will you never
learn a thing from within the confines of
your tetsubin; squeal and pipe all day, read a
book my lovely mousymouse friend).

"I will take you to my heart." It is the only
language Desire knows; the only pact and
promise that can be made. Their
understanding of one another is as cyclical
as the meaning of my Love and Desire (you
cannot seduce seduction, did I tell you how
nice you look today, that sharpness, that
abashed mindlessness, that Delaminated
smile; split into thin layers of uncertainty

The world pulses and Delirium is indecisive
in shape, a deli of fleshy features and the
immaterial is immaterial in Desire's world
(the form of the meaning of the name of the
last of the first of the darkest of the ignis
fatuus is nothing here, nothing here, and that
is… would hesheit appreciate…? Desire
never appreciates what hesheit does not

"I will love you the only way I can," Desire
decides in that voice, that sharp sneering
voice which sounds like slick sex and is as
such because Desire is the only one who can
touch the places where Delight used to be
and hisherits fingers burn her like an infection
and Delirium feels so dirty, writhing and
aroused (in this the only the only way,
Desire's fingers deep deep inside the darkest
Corners of her mind (and Desire's fingers
bleed) tracing the shattered edges, mind the
glass dear, don't cut yourself).

It is good, the meaning of a kiss of their
mouths beyond the material meaning of the
arbitrary shapes they take (them damn
philosophical Dualists would be proud of
you today Del, reconciling that madness,
that stallion madness, rushing up and down
your spine).

"I love you, Desire," Delirium feels she
should assert because Desire is both brother
and sister and Desire is both family and
stranger and Desire is both lover and enemy
and it is not a lie and sometimes that is all
Delirium (Delaceration, her heart, she still
has one you see, perhaps Dream likes to
pretend he has hidden his away, and perhaps
Desire has torn hishersits out to make this
room the room is as much inside of
Desire's chest as it is not, Delirium knows
and maybe Despair sinks her fishhooks in
far too deep into such a helpless little
muscle, but Del's heart tears itself apart, into
bleeding confetti pieces she sprinkles over
Bellingham) can ever seem to hope for.

"I am always loved," Desire can be too
much sometimes, too vicious sometimes, too
dangerous sometimes, all these things all the
time, Destiny will tell you that if you ask.
Del won't ask him that, she knows it on her
own, the way her skin knows all the things
anyone has ever asked her bigbrother.

Abandon; child and height of Desire and
Delirium and sweetyoung Del reaches and
wonders what it would really be like to be a
mother (it is so very much the same, in the
arms of the serpent; Eve doesn't talk about
it, not anymore)

"Yes," Del says, her hair streaming a long
conked red over the curve of her back, "Yes,
you are always loved."

It hurts so many to say this, it hurts innocents,
and it hurts Del (Delirium and maybe also
Delight in the past, which always holds you
down no matter how much you don't

"And I love you," Delirium says. "I love

She breathes against the cruel curve of
Desire's throat, naked breath, open and
wanting (aching breath, she is always
aching, hungering for the sense she lost in
caterpillar smoke)
breath; her breath smells
of peppermint ice cream and Desire smiles.

(A dark understanding smile that makes Del
feel safe in the naked embrace of too many
of their bodies; Desire will not change the
way the others do, Desire is already the
brambling meaning of confusion and there is
a comforting surety to this undulation.)

They kiss again and Delirium's saliva is
peach tea (you smell of peaches, Desire, you
smell of fleshy bleeding peaches)
and Desire
touches her, irritates and soothes all the
places she needs to be touched (indulgence…
indulgence, the birthright of any older sibling…)

Delirium falls asleep on the velvetduvet, but slips
from Desire's embrace as the dreams (brother?
brother? where for art thou brother? do you
know what they do? to me?)
pull her back
beneath the black waves. She should eat
more. She should rest more. She should stay
longer. She is gone.

Desire stalks cold heart&hearth stone and
smokes against the urge to give pursuit.
Pitch is sticky that way and the smoke fritters
itself away on the harsh winds,

"Did I tell you how nice you look today,

Standard Disclaimers.