Saturday, April 30, 2016

Rahovart


Hand on your
shoulder & abundant oil
for his lantern, climb in that basket
& leave your treasures
behind.  His boots
are made for plodding, stomping,
finding fault lines
in the face of the Father,
the Son & the poltergeist
who showed up one day
asking for plates to break.
Rahovart plays with dolls
& you are the doll,
curmudgeon bludgeoned
by his stick, off his fiery
lawn, his dread record
collection, his foul commemorative
manikins, his tour posters, his home
office full of flayed
souls.

Friday, April 29, 2016

Mycale

Caller of the jade
rabbit, blood
queen, O Luna winking
for Lumiere rockets.
Crepe dangles an ectoplasmic
wattle from your
maiden's cone--Mycale
cast your spell on the
rustic moor, rod in hand.
Night marjorette, moonlight
on the pert folds of
your witch's shift.  My lady
of etched stars, nothing
but a singer of songs.
Just a girl
in a swamp.  Just
a mage maging
for her magic moon,
not a man but a big
bauble, a porthole
to the mother & then the crone,
pomegranate seeds dropped
from their aprons as the tides
tug her in for a kiss.



Thursday, April 28, 2016

Scox


Trade you six
settings of silver for a
healthy baby boy:
throw in desert forks
& receive a lifetime supply of
Pampers. Trap him
in a basket, bind him in a triangle,
try  to carve
him into wedges before he gets away. Never
let him near the stable or
the cats fat with infant
breath.  Scox will brook
your commands so long
as your questions are phrased
in the form of an answer.
The voiceless child who wants
only to sing is given
poetry for twelve hundred
years.  Not so fast, but
promises are kept
until the end of time
or such time as
the heavenly hatchet
is buried.  Don't hold your breath
in your sinister hand
for eating the fruit
of the furnace. Until such
time as you will not rise,
like the flowers in the spring do,
as though they are expecting
a better world.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

Caym

Of shrill birdspeak
make a lecture
on despair, despair,
despair.

Black wings,
black eyes,
red beak & wicked
blade.  Baked

in a pie like
desiccated grapes
on the breast
of Pallas.  Knows
what you did, ever-
more learned

than the dove,
dullard, drops
pebbles in the mouth
of willing
delegates & wills them

to break with convention,
woos them with
promise of spiced
wine & loose women,

wind in immigrants'
faces, a million whining
planchettes scraping their names
across the ledger
of eternity's corporate boardroom
& casino
penthouse suite.



Tuesday, April 26, 2016

Xaphan


Can't blame a guy for trying
to blowtorch the pearly gates,
melt down St. Peter's
fillings & sell them on the
deep web. If you're
going to douse yourself
in gasoline, might as well
bring the bellows so the whole
world burns with you. His
Zippo's engraved with his
bellows & hell was just
a great heap of sticks before
Xaphan arrived.  Cooks your
cocktail, fries your soul
like a druggie egg.  Pulls
the alarm at vespers.
Laughter crackles, breath
singes, brimstone cologne.
Long live the pan that hovers above
his smoldering pate, poached
& plated, your very world,
on flames, a freight train
running through the middle
of the reeking pit.

Monday, April 25, 2016

Andras

Say an owl with the body
of a man; angels' wings
stolen from the doves.
Who giveth the foot-
soldiers wings? Why fly
when you can ride the black
-hearted wolf. Soeuer
of this cord, discord,
discarded servants rife
for the reaping of the great
scimitar of the crescent
moon.  Death to you
ends in spring, anxious
buds tight little
fists.  Say no more, walk
away in silence.
Go away mad.
Go away & don't come back
until you've got five sticks
of dynamite, a cudgel
fashioned from an ex-
lover's brand-new bedpost,
a shotgun sawed off
& filled with birdshot.
Await the signal then
gouge the eye, sweep
the leg:  Andras
isn't the man to fight
for your honor
but he'll survive to flay
another knight &
fight another
day.


Sunday, April 24, 2016

Flaga


Neither a fan of Aynnes Rice
or Rand, Flaga
came of age when
making ladies
clutch their pearls really 
meant something.

On good authority, we have it
that she’s she has been
maligned, mis-
understood,
made to
escape
from certain
circles before the bell jar
was even invented.

How mortified she is
by these kids
today
with their Wicca
& their hairless
familiars.  These covens
don’t even pay
tribute:

they just release
limited-
edition enamel
badges cadged from
late-80s sci-fi cartoons &
tattoo each other’s knuckles
with sewing needles & India ink.

Back in her day, runes
burnt into skin meant safety
from enemies' flame
& could maybe
pull down the
moon if evening’s frogsong
was just wrong enough.

Don’t even think of approaching
her cauldron or ratty
broom.  Flaga has been 
demanding the enormous
statue of Baphomet 
get off her lawn for decades
now.  

Perhaps you'd be interested
in one of the unholy 
water defilers Flaga
sells at deeply discounted
prices?