WRATH
Do witches bind the rivers fast?
Bloodlines: Twine on shipless masts.
Arteries and swollen veins:
One in plunder; two remains.
So cast aside the brook and stream,
The vagabonds of the Night Mare’s dream. Whereupon the Bittern screams.
Sinews wrap between the seams
Of substrate’s lies—mad harmonies:
The Gears which form the steppes of time,
Which turn the script which wheels unwind.
A broken thread may curse the Loom
Which bore bereft: a Shadow’s Womb Which left of Love an emptied tomb.
How the mire begot the Groom
Of Hate conspired—a silhouette Of ash afire—the long regret.
How, in heart, may soul forget,
When memory has not happened yet?
So, toss the waves which pull her train: The silt of seas and inkblot stain Of Tartarus’ blackened vane.
Her crevice cleft to stake her claim.
A Leper deft to burn the rain.
So, hold me close in her disdain:
A Circus shift applauds her game
By innocence stole, she forged her chain. Her Jesuits in painted smiles Cry in laughter from denials. Her clergymen in blooded gowns, Wine about the Beggar’s crowns.
As Truth lies drowned beneath the Nile, Upside-down in Jury trial
While chemical tides from Adder’s bile,
Melt the righteous and flips the switch,
Electric eels in chairs the fitch, Then throws each witness in her ditch With lights turned off so No One sees.
A screech owl’s kiss betrays all Needs.
So Adam’s sister soils the leaves:
By brackish embrace o’er Paupers Deeds.
In moon’s red tide no sole may rest,
Adrift and marred by Jester’s crest, While colors fade to emptiness.
Where, my Darling, is the Night?
If Day begins in candlelight.
And, when, in shadow, dawns the morn, When sun neglects the dark with scorn?
A vacant vale deprives the depth:
A driven nail in sons of Seth.
Will wind yet moan without it’s breadth?
May Life be bound within her Death?
Is Light made bright so we cannot see?
In Black Abyss each memory?
I call her bluff and raise my dead.
On silenced shore my Name was bred. The Apple’s core then shot his head, And now her back is turning red.
Now, what I lack gave me Strong,
My flooded lungs drank her song, So by unright I break her wrongs.
Her Cutout King no more belongs.
The Absent Throne where Nowhere sits:
The Tophat Crown—the Nothing Pit.
I am Twilight in the mire.
Who can halt the Dance of Fire?
Who, by Black, can light the Day?
A Serpent’s lip but drips decay.
So, loose the rain: call up the Worm! Formed of clay and made to squirm. I breathe her smoke of Dust and Ash, Then peal her eyelids by each lash. My Thunder roars before the flash,
As Wheels must churn before the crash.
As Adam’s fear: a Son is born,
Breached by birth, her belly torn,
Her bottomless cave where hair was shorn, In Nothingness, a Somethingness formed, Before her hour, yet to mourn.
My Eye of needle spun the storm. “I have come,” declared the End.
“Just in Time to start again.”