Venus, the planet that rules me. . .justified by Libras scales. Low-keyed and perpetual, a whirling sylph whose white robe stripes around her; taffeta wimpled like a nun’s headcloth; a buxom floozy with a pink boa; mummy, whose black sediment desiccates within; wasp-star to Mayan Galileos; an outpatient wrapped in post-operative gauze; Cleopatra in high August– her flesh curling in a heat mirage lightyears from Alexandria; tacky white pulp spigoted through the belly of a larva; the perfect courtesan: obliging, thick-skinned, and pleated with riddles, Venus quietly mutates in her ivory tower. Deep within that libidinous albedo temperatures are hot enough to boil lead, pressures 90 times more unyielding than Earth’s. And though layered cloud-decks and haze strata seem to breathe like a giant bellows, heaving and sighing every 4 days, the Venerean cocoon is no cheery chrysalis brewing a damselfly or coaxing life into a reticent grub, but a sniffling atmosphere 40 miles thick of sulphuric, hydrochloric, and hydrofluoric acids all sweating like a global terrarium, cutthroat, tart, and self-absorbed. No sphagnum moss or polypody fern here, where blistering vapors and rosy bile hint at the arson with which the Universe began.
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 15:50:52 +0000
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