Dragonfly

A healthy dose of skepticism have.
Would I believe the insects would obey?
That you would enter into covenant.
With them whose consciousness is dubious?
As I walked toward the Greenbelt for a hike,
thought of mosquitoes living in Peru
with whom you bargained and had made a deal:
if they would never bite, you would not kill.

Like random drones, the dragonflies through air.
They were quite large. This kind are hard to catch.
I tried before, occasions multiple.
For kids, one time I purchased special nets.
Some jars and chemicals, pins, mounting board.
Collection large, together that we made.

One fly flew different manner from the rest.
Was falling through the air, more motion made.
Sometimes flew up, but mostly downward path.
At last it fell. Upon the ground, I saw,
like helicopter that turned upside down.
Upon its back, was still and grasped in legs,
a smaller dragonfly that was its prey.
The focused hunter, legs, half-dozen grasped.
Fight to the death, the outcome was assured.
The captured’s desperate movements, urgency.

The ethics, entomology I think
it’s place in science is legitimate.
My interest solely in aesthetic arts.
A study for a child may justify
the killing jar, but doesn’t so for me.
My curiosity regards design.
Take pictures rather than live specimens.

When I picked up this hunting dragonfly,
held gently by the tail but prey escaped.
With prey released, sat perfectly on hand.
Demeanor calm. (Of course I held his tail.)
A perfect perch, I looked into his eyes.
Great domes, the million lenses all in blur.
Some conscious interaction did occur.
Released his tail and to the sky he flew.
I begged forgiveness that I lost his meal.
My curiosity to satisfy.
He will go tell the horseflies of my act.
They are the ones with whom I must agree.
The horses bite, the dragons eat themselves.

Sickness Unto Death

Then this, the formula which I subscribe.
This formula, the state of self describes.
That state of self, despair completely gone.
Despair eradicated from my heart.
When I look unto self, what I desire?
To be myself, at heart, is all I want.
I ground myself, identity perceived,
in power of the universe, declared.
Existence, mine, as part of its design.

Death Metal Lyrics #4

I have taken control from you
The moment you understand
That I have decei-ved you
That I will now bind your hands
I have taken control from you
The moment you understand.
That I have betrayed you
To capture you, I remand.
I have bound you in prison.
In a prison that you have built
Now the wardens they have you.
The wardens now those you jailed
They will never release you.
They will preserve your life.
Only sustain your torture
They will sustain your life.
They will sustain your torment
They will sustain your torment
They will sustain your torment.
I have taken control from you.

All statements that I make addressed to you.
Attraction for the fairer sex, express.
Can comment on the features you possess.
Of course, some beauty inside and on out.
In present instance, commenting on out.
“Your body is so beautiful,” I say.
Next question that I ask, I ask of you.
Against me you might hold so many things.
I hope such statement won’t be one of them.
In fact, would tell you: my infection, cured!

Capital Call

To partners limited, this is addressed,
or maybe members of a company.
The time has come, this notice that we give.
As partner, general, or as manager.
On partnership’s behalf, or company’s.
(Both in their turn, fed’rally taxed the same.)
Commitment that you made for capital.
Must fund a sum upon a certain date.
If not, dilution likely will result.
If you have questions, please don’t hesitate.
Please call us, then, and all will be explained.
Attorney will, in writing, extra charge,
all questions satisfied, pentameter,
the noun; iambic is the adjective.
The meter of each line that he will write.

Baltimore

My younger son, a story he recites,
of man in seaside town in Ireland.
In long ago, town by the Moors attacked.
From town, one hundred people were kidnapped
Sold in bazaars of northern Africa
as galley slaves, as harem’s populace.
Of them no news was ever heard again.
The story of the man who town betrayed,
a poem that he authored in his cell.
Who saw that through the Moors he could acquire
town for himself and for his family.
They tried him for his treason and condemned
to death. The means of execution strange.
Tied naked to a post near water’s edge.
Tide out, and in, up to his neck, each day.
Was left to die, whatever way was fine.
In spring time, water cold, and air was brisk.

“O’Driscoll mocks me, mercy he withholds.
He tells me of the way that I will die.
In poem form, perhaps, my soul will save:

‘For treason and your filthy grasping hands.
At water’s edge, to stake you will be tied.
Tried and condemned you are for avarice.
The waters rise to level of your chest.
With water, pilchards come to swim around
the stake, your legs. Your genitals consume.
These fish, with spell, enchanted they will be.
I bought a curse from woman in the woods.
The vial into the water’s edge I pour.
Attracts those fish, aggression does instill.
As water comes in with that first day’s tide.
These fish will come. They sense the greed you have.
The death that by a thousand cuts, such pain.
The pilchard trade you wanted for yourself.
Not normally carnivorous like that.
Their tortures you will live with ‘til you’re dead.
Their empty bellies only filled with this:
when they consume the means by which you fucke.
The means by which you thought to gain that trade.
My workmen sold as slaves to heathen scum.
Mistake you made to think your plan would work.’”

Sir Walter said this prayer unto his God:

“This, my confession, hope to save my soul.
My life is forfeit, fact, there is no doubt.
Bites from sardines until my groin does bleed.
When pilchards eat me, this world to the next.
My member gnawed, to heaven’s gate approach.
St. Peter will look down between my legs.
Remember, please, the night the cock crowed thrice.”

My son, each night, in tavern, he did hear.
These words, condemned and gloating, men repeat.
His soul is soft. For Coppinger he cried:

“No man should have to suffer awful fate!
I know that to the Moors he did betray.
Forgiveness we should give as we receive!”

I shook my head, his innocence betrayed.
Of justice, lacking in analysis.
God’s mercy is of course as infinite.
Fish bellies’ volumes: size of cock and balls.

Athena’s Magick Garment

Athena, magick garment sought to make.
My true love asked the goddess for a cloak.
Was woven from that thread as black as night.
Spun from obsidian by secret means.
The spirits in volcano spin and weave.
This thread they spin is woven into clothes
they wear when to the underworld they go.
Thus clothed, their ghostly visage disappears
behind the fabric wove from lava rock.

She asked for garment wove from inky thread.
Would wear it down to Hades to inquire.
Of midwife, doula, of her time of birth.
Astrologer, to question, riddle gave.
As answer to complete predictive chart.
Specific date and time to analyze.
In giving birth, her mother having died.
Once fell unconscious, never did revive.
Her mother, fleeting moment, could not bear.
For endless sleep, would wait to spend the time.
The doula, only one to know the hour.

Conversing with the spirits in their world.
Would not confer if living they believed.
If they perceive that you, alive, are there.
No mortal could obtain the thread they use.
Athena sent the Raven on a run.

“Obtain their thread by subtle means, direct.
In any case, the thread you must retrieve.
If spirits catch you, lava they will throw.
The presence of the living does enrage.
Their jealousy of blood that through your veins
still pumps, and pneuma, breathing, you possess.
They would the lava hurl as projectile.
So fly with haste, maneuver in the air.
Rocks burning, flying, hit you, they will kill.”

The Raven for Athena did retrieve.
In talons sharp, as maniac, he flew.
The thread for my love’s secreting disguise.
She never told me question she did ask.
Unto astrologer, the time submit.
She asked a question I would never know.
Was unrequited love I felt for her.
The question she would never ask of me.

The Dove

The joke: of true love, swallow is the bird.
The Raven’s true love was in fact a dove.
(At any rate, for swallow, was too large.)
In nature, non-enchanted, was this dove.
Her beauty rivaled that of any bird.
White feathers, lovely. Eyes, as doe’s, were black.
Her beak and feet, were blossoms peach in hue.
She walked demure among the temple birds.
Audacious peacocks with their feathers fanned.
Dove’s understated elegance compared.

In temple, lounged on bed, reclined to eat.
Athena’s bowl, with berries, it was filled.
From magick gardens, ate enchanted fruit.
Among them, strange in taste: the schisandra.
Picked from those trees in Asia’s northern clime.
Her careless hand knocked one from bowl to ground.
The berry rolled down steps to temple halls.
Dove strode through temple, with the other birds.
Enchanted fruit, our dove did see at feet.
As birds will peck at ground to eat a seed.
She ate it, and they opened all at once.
Her eyes perceived the world as made anew.
Gained reason as the Raven did from gods.

Until then admiration from afar.
His mind, no conjugation with brute beast.
Now with her reason gained, he did inquire.
He asked her to describe the waking up.

“Dear Raven, all the times we saw you pass.
Athena’s temple, we communicate
in bird-like way, in awe of your enchant.
You are so handsome, walk with her, admired.
With goddess dance, what use have you with birds?”

The Raven, skin beneath the black, blushed red.
Could holy bird love feathers black as night?

“I must confess that when I saw you pass.
Your figure caused my heart to skip a beat.
My curiosity of you was piqued.
At moment when I thought to take some act.
I checked myself, considered intellect.
Alone in world, as bird with mind of god.
Eschew a loving act with brutish beast.
Exploitative, my ethics contravene.”

The Dove, she blushed, attraction he expressed.
For days thereafter, they among the halls.
Of temple, rock was cool, and quiet, soft.
These two enchanted birds conversed in depth.
At last, concluding that the stars aligned.
The Raven told the Dove that her, he loved.

Raven King’s Mushrooms

Upon the bovines’ backs the birds do ride.
Most often color of their feathers: white.
Once, I did look to fields and saw him ride.
Black feathers, Raven King on Brahman’s back.
Wings folded and I knew him well enough.
Could see his smirk despite his rigid beak.
Born on a cow, I knew he carried news:

“Man, look to ground, from feces, dung, they grow.
I know revolting, dig in shit of cow.
With practice deft, from patty, you may pluck.
Small, brown, their caps do have distinctive shape.
Blue, white stems, color change when they are bruised.
Remember flower once carried in my beak?
Plants, sacred, healing, gifts of gods bestowed.
This mushroom on top shelf of pharmacy.”

Before I heard his words in croaking voice,
the fungus camouflaged from casual view.
Now that he noted, millions evident.
Picked bushels, would bear back to my abode.

When I ingest they disconnect that node
that frames my world, and helps me orient.
Some grooves in my brain worn by frequent use,
those paths would take me to a spiral down.
Re-frame perspective and would gain new view.
Let loose the story that you tell yourself.
You must release the narrative that binds.
For freedom, you re-frame with nature’s drug.

My friend, with feathers black, does minister.
Gods’ agent, to discharge his faithful call.

 

14.13

When I was young, he took me with him to the court.
We’re not in rags, those who appear before the king.
Miraculous that we were there but pharaoh never was in doubt.
It was not he who said these words. It was my father.
The king demanded sign to prove the truth of words.
My father did what he was told to do.
He cast his staff upon the ground.
I, by his side, had no idea what would occur.
In instant, quick, when struck the ground, became a snake.
His wizards all in practiced unison
held staves aloft to mock my father’s act
and all at once, to ground, they cast them down.
To snakes, their staves, all of them did transform!
The narrative does not at all relate this fact,
but all who witnessed these acts were so shocked.
Or else, would scream or run in terror.
Their shock or circumspection held them still.
A host of snakes now on the floor.
Aaron’s was aggressive. Moved quickly toward the others.
He ate them up. When finished, was completely full.
Snakes of the sorcerers, time to digest.

Now, upon the seashore, not my father’s voice I hear, but his.
From him, whose words seem always crazed.
Would not bear scrutiny but for the fact the words he speaks come true.
As well as snakes, I saw the frogs.
The water, blood, and gnats and flies,
and all those babies dead.
My God, what god is this who claims me as his own?
I cannot turn away but would.
Now on this seashore, to despair, the place where I would flee.
In my mind, all I see are writhing snakes!
How can it not be true?
It’s what I saw and now here with this man.
My father’s brother’s tripping balls.
(You know they knew of all that stuff back in the day.)
Would never follow crazed or drugged,
but damn, those fucking snakes!
Are all I see now in my mind, insane!
He stands there now on shore with arms outstretched.
It never is his staff he gets to use.
Magicians’ means, as tool for their dark arts.
His tools: his hands, those hands that God did make.

Upon my cheek, the east wind starts to blow.