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17 October 2015



                                                                                                             with thanks to Octavia Butler
Vince Ballentine 2015 ig: vballentine99

They don’t know.


None of them.

Lionesses all, we know:
Lonely we race savanna down
For blood             for meat
For ourselves       to be found in a kill of love.

He hunts, too, for her, but it’s not the same.
And thank goddess.
And yet, still     it is not the hunt of love lioness makes:
a firestorm silent infinite roar: she plays in danger under a sun of her own tone-
a danger, a threat, a vulnerability of not owning her own heart -exposed under hot noon-
But feeding it        feeding it always:
                                              the need
                                              for meat.
A blood bath for her soul that returns it to the gaping open-heart                of her solar plexus.

A long and winding Pleiades into the extraplanetary focus of another
Standing on the black paint of sky
because black is never black. It is always
And there is a green in king’s eyes…
But it is an orange in queen’s.
Because earth warms, and rages in earthen races,
While his violet night hunt is cool as a sprint, and the purple road is paved and smooth and cool
in the black-green night,
a racing around the edge of stylized, cut, and known cliff's edges, while
Hers guns into a heart of darkness.

And then there was a wait,
           a pause
                        a taking in of breath
And a silent holding at the edge of the road where the gravel meets
The bare edge of the black top rocks
that tell of a strange kind of civilization at the edge of the world,
Where lioness hearts are still queen,
And king’s rules are yet unknown.