Fragments: Canticle in Black

cobwebbed hand, arched […]

Fragments: Canticle in Black


I

        cobwebbed hand, arched
To hang from the ceiling-star,
In fleeting dream suffocated,
Told         a lost county far:

Where your countess calls,
A sister in your bed, she falls
Again,

II

Still this Sabbat heart— sated throbs:
Slowsoft drumming pulse, Witching—
Kindest babe, branched bitter sobs:
Is that betrayal upon your stitching?

Do not make Agamemnon of me


III

Still this Sabbat heart— my white witch:
Glowsoft breast, where I lay my cheek—
This witching hour to tear a tender stitch:
          a sanguine day in Northern bleak

You shall make Agamemnon of me!


IV

Home: O! the word repels my grace to stay—
Instill in me instead the wanderlust
Of greater heroes
Wise in their own eyes: cleverly cleaved
By their own controll’d countenance.

Yet no more deceived in faithless ART
Than                       is of Godless reticence—
So like the Semite with the Law in hand,
Yahweh turns to all who his Name misuse:
Declare their sin as Sodom, they hide it not!
And sweep clean the Lord of Israel’s land:


V

Forthwith came LEVIATHAN— at his hilt
The notchèd sword Plagia, his birthright

And Shath, the Lord Below, Lucifer’s Father:
At his side, the Priests of Ancient Nemi,
Called for this one hour from darkest tide’s sigh
To fulfill their arcane purpose on earth,
Carrying censers streaming crimson smoke;

Lord LEVIATHAN, iconoclast regent
With his mother Lilith’s bloody rag


VI

As my sister calls, countess in my bed,
Deceive me from this living dream of death:
What I have wrought! o waking sin, I said:
Sister, why am I cursed to so crave your breath?


VII

      lustrous sight of Herod’s swinging scythe
Guide me sister dear to endless lustless night


VIII: A Song of the Damned

Blessed be our burning tongues,
For they did speak words in haste, vanity and arrogance.
Blessed be our writhing limbs,
For only flames will counter their bloody, murd’rous pasts.
Blessed be our sightless eyes,
For they looked upon the truth and it did not set them free.
Blessed be our scorched ears,
For they heard not the Word despite it spoken clear.
Blessed be our ashen nostrils,
For tho they felt the scent of brimstone, they tingled not.
Blessed be our melting flesh,
For we served it better than the God of Light.
Thanks be to the Father: and thank our Lord Satan:
He who delivered us to Fire, and he who stokes the Flames,
For we are where we earned to be:
Blessed be the Damned.

All is Calm

Five hours, please […]

All is Calm

 

I

Five hours, please
   Just enough time to
     Sail away,
                        ride away

Surely a jewelled stallion
     May take my
            Last spot at pasture

Enraptured,
           a gilded crown,
not a frown from the bow

Just luminescent
       Liquid diamond

Goodbye, Old World—
   Would you pray for me yet?

 

II

Greetings from my castle,
     a wave from the walls.
Exiled Vixen,
          enamoured and vain.
Confession uncomprehended,
   an apology from God,

Whilst gears tick,
      a trick to keep you stuck.

Your beckoning finger
       Cannot drag me from this villa,
Just as the wind
        Will never encompass
                   The rain.

The prayer is silent.
       Penance can wait.

 

III

The sparrow flies
   beyond four walls;
between the seasons,
               She lies.
Hopping ’cross sand
                    and glass.

A freedom unchained,
      a supreme love,
ungained yet sitting
       like a phantasy
’twixt sweet pollen,
        angles askew,
a perfection unfound
        in even the Tetrahedron.

You seal on a paper heart,
       feel the warm air
            in December.

 

IV

There was a reason:
       To see life.
            Truly.

To live — that
          is it.

Autumn — the first.
     Brown hair.

The fort of dreams.
Godfather to existence.

     Amber glint.
                Lingering spit.

     Truth.
                 Beauty.

 

V

Winter, the last.

The jewelled stallion
         prays for me.

Whilst angels dance
    through blonde highlights,
And rooks knell
     like the church tower’s bell.

Turquoise ripples,
        chattering forms in blue.
A great, slight distance
                       from you.

    Good morning—
             open your eyes,

                 face the end.

 

VI

Weak profile and ragged
       hair — red spells death
Crimson cloth unveils
                  nothing more.
Acceptance.

             No new sight,
             you might say
                  I’m sorry

For rolling through
        and across
Celephaïs’ dreamt walls.

Lying in vulnerable grace
          spread eagle
     torn through by
          ragged arrow tip,
                      descending.

 

VII

The lone drifter must
      feel like Jean Seberg.
Dutch courage to die.

But these thoughts
        worry her not—
            instead,
                a chance smile.

The smile — the
                      very same—
     returns, many
                    years on.

When she thinks of the sun,
      the gentle yet chilling
                               breeze,
the absence of gulls,
       the soft lows of the sea.

 

VIII

Cigarettes and bottles
      of beer are this
           generation’s fossils.

Snow dove on the sand
Clatters into the sought blue,
       far above
           our shared love
                 of this lone moment.

The grace of infinitesimal
         grains, soft as the
     fur of an Andalusian dog.

No blade crosses the solar eye
      as cornflower canvas
           penetrates the self.

      This moment, here to stay.

 

IX

Vision at last returns
    Burns that cast religion
To seek a being
    Worthy of the throne
To sift through callous letters
    Whilst swarthy natives
Know you better
    Than the wall you crash against

Heart menstruation,
      A political demonstration,
               Policeman dressed
                                 in black.

A prayer for the slow
A prayer for the meek
A prayer for the soft glow

   and a prayer for me:
       the weak.

 

X

A return to arms.
A dry, salty beach.
Foreign conversations
            from behind doors ajar.

Exchange of ideals.
      An ever-present dread
  Coming closer,
                 getting further away.

Apologies and hymns.
             Hands held wide
       to let in the new world.

A gift of pain, black tendrils.

A masque of warm rain,
             Sitting innocent
             on a bed of nails.

 

XI

Life can be found in death—
     Without posthumus decay
     there can be no laughter,
     no love, no shared smiles.

Gentle crashing, closed eyes.
     A sweet summer scent
     so far from its home.
     I embrace it.

I remind it gently
         Not to wander too far—
    for even seasons can get lost.

There will always be life—
   Just as death will always
       be with us.

You cannot run — enjoy
    What there is, friend.

 

XII

Castles made of sand and glass,
     Blasted heaps of terror
Loom desolate over my home.

Alone they march,
                 These monoliths,
     Never hiding in Shath’s cellar.

    Right here—
                           Right now.
     I hold my warning.
     Tomfoolery of Chronos,
     Dream-state of Celephaïs.

Whilst gulls return, and
     Stallions stride, and
     Solemn prayers are sung;

We welcome in the new world:
   We shed our cowls of grey.