The Queen Of Wands
Crossed By The Moon

Her valentine-crimson hair
danced and wriggled on her head
like snakes of flame from a fiery Medusa.
She claimed to be a rock'n'roll love-child,
and I believed her.
She moved about her suburban island
like the throbbing hum of bass strings,
bewitching passing sailors
with heavy riffing from her electric guitar.

Her husband, the Prince of Cups,
knew her as a wildfire mare that could not be saddled,
and he was highly aroused by her midnight-ride romps
with strange virile cowboys,
as he spied on her through her own crystal ball.
Or so she told me as we rocked and rolled in my bed,
slipping and sliding on a sea of backbone slip,
squeezing lemons and juice running down our legs.

The Queen of Wands was jaguar-sleek
and so hot your fingers blistered when you touched her.
And maybe it was just this sensual sizzle-pop and griddle-hiss
that exiled her to the barren surface of the moon.
Maybe her mother couldn't take the heat;
maybe mom's panties got wet
every time she picked up her little queenlet,
and, horrified by the child's brazen built-in sex-broil,
banished her to the bleak lunar wastelands where she now dwelled,
her fire damped down by cold clay and harsh, paper-dry winds.

The Queen occasionally escaped from her cratered prison
by disguising herself with the help of potions
brewed up in her cauldron,
and the subterfuge of her sailor-slaves,
long since enchanted into braying pig-dog-men.

Our bonfire boff was only to have lasted a single night,
but the Queen saw something of herself in me I suppose,
and I became her favorite,
and our simmering dalliance lit up into a sexual conflagration.

She had once sat at the right hand of Beelzebub
as a sorceress-in-training,
and men offered up their souls to her
at midnight blues-guitar crossroads.
And so I couldn't very well refuse her invitation
to join her in her marital bed.

After a sumptuous aphrodisiac feast
and a deadly nightshade cocktail,
her husband and I filled her at both ends
like a stuffed sweet pepper,
and powered by an itching copulatory spell,
we explored every possible configuration
of three bodies, two male organs, and two female orifices.
"Hey, I think I've seen this porn movie before,"
said the Prince of Cups.
"I think I'll keep you both," said the Queen of Wands,
grinning like a mouse killed by a cat
and waking up to an eternity in the land of cheese.

The Queen and I fucked in the shower
like horny otters,
bent over and hanging onto the soap rack.
Her labia was a perfect pink tropical flower
in the full flush of bloom,
carnivorous and inviting and waiting to pounce.
A nibble of breath on her neck
was all it took to melt her into a puddle
like an erotic witch from an x-rated Wizard of Oz.

We feasted for weeks on end in her lunar mansion,
the moon beaming down on us ripe and full,
like a fat milk-engorged breast.
But when the nighttime sky started taking bites
out of that dairy-moon-platter,
her mood began to turn and churn
like the washing machines at Bedlam,
and her silver mirror no longer told her
she was the fairest of them all.

The Queen wigged out,
flipped her bell, book and candle,
drank hemlock,
danced in red-hot shoes with spikes inside them,
spun her head around like a gyroscope, snap, crackle, pop,
humped her broomstick,
puked upside down crucifixes across the room.

The tides discombobulated her inner ear,
and she staggered and reeled from room to room,
frothing at the mouth, and cursing me and my family
all the way back to Abraham.
And so I was banished from the house of the moon,
where orb-addled lobsters crawl from murky pools,
raise their claws to the heavens
and spin about crying hallelujah.

I dispatched impassioned letters to her by messenger
which were returned ragged and torn,
scratched out and stained with ink.
I bided my time, hoping the Queen
would return to her summertime brilliance
with the first sickle-sliver of the waxing moon,
but her inferno of lust for me
had been totally washed away
by the men-in-white-coats fire brigade.
The moon dripped it's smelly green cheese
all over her passion and snuffed it out
like a sputtering candle.

And I received an embossed and filigreed royal missive
thanking me for my service to Her Majesty,
which I kept as a memento
of our wild, wing-melting, bronco-fuck ride
to the heart of the sun,
where, for one glorious hour,
it danced, jitterbug and pirouette,
in perfect balance and harmony
with the volatile, punch-drunk moon.

David Aronson
April 2006