Eating Ghosts
Black Milk
First came
Man.
Out-of machines
Bleak horses
Snare.
Snakes drink
Of brooks.
GOTHIC
Frozen Garden
Not for God
Even.
Song to Name
Xenophanes remarked long ago
That Negro gods were black and their noses flat.
If horses, oxen, and lions only believed in gods
Their hands wherewith would portray them.
The furtive savage conceals his real name
And doubtless fashions his deities.
Gods must likewise keep their true names secret.
In ancient Egypt superstitions are dateless.
Past embalmed in the hearts of people,
Hardly less effectual than bodies of cats
Or crocodiles,
And the rest of the divine menagerie
Is in rock-cut tombs.
Conception is well illustrated by history.
A woman mighty in words, like Isis,
Is weary of the world of men.
What it was, I know not.
Was it fire?
Was it water?
My heart is on fire,
My flesh trembles all my limbs to a quake.
Bring me the children of gods,
With healing words and understanding lips,
Whose power reaches heaven.
I am colder than water,
I am hotter than fire,
All my limbs sweat,
I created the heavens and earth,
I ordered the mountains,
I made the great and wide sea,
I stretched out the two horizons like a curtain.
I am the one,
Who opened his eyes to light,
And who shut them in great darkness.
For he who possesses the true name
Possesses the very being of God and man.
If you had the patience to follow this examination
You would probably agree
That names are as primitive as thought.
And that,
Includes within this scope,
Common folk, gods
As well as kings and priests.
Code
Divine king,
Kill yourself
While you’re still in the full vigor of life.
Fix a term beyond
Which a great feast
Is every sharp knife
Turning off flesh itself.
Cut your throat yourself.
Every sharp knife
Begins to faint
As you perform this sacrifice.
He offers himself as a scapegoat,
A criminal into the sea,
When a city suffering from plague
Has burned on a pyre
To quill a magical power.
Vigor into the stagnant,
Scourging not to intensify agony.
The artificial fertilization
Is marriage of the male
Between two human victims.
Inherent in the stick
To be conveyed by contact with women,
If these considerations
Are just vegetation,
Begin with a man
Not chosen to be the mouth-piece,
Or the custom of putting to death a human.
I now propose,
This proof.
Simulation / Stimulation
Definitions lacking,
And comparison not that solid in its heels,
I think the basics can thus be put:
When I draw a house, or a room,
And think of light and the way it changes,
Thus simulating nature, a walk in the forest,
An inner landscape, maybe with some luck
I can stimulate life.
There are other occasions when a blind heart
Will lead me strait into the simulation of a good woman
Who will stimulate self-loathing and rage against and against
My nature.
And to you wretched fucks,
There’s nothing stimulating about simulating suicide either.
She's Much Too Strange
She's much too strange.
Black flower,
From blacker seed overgrown,
Seizing my bright sunny garden's glow,
All that I own,
My last breath,
Like slow death,
Moving slower than a dying grub.
Garbage hearts up against the windowpane.
My golden hands bloomed into fuck-fists,
Heartache going under floorboards,
Under skin,
Open wound...
And you my Geisha,
Cherry-blossom,
Tightly closed,
Hermetic music-box,
Suffocate me,
Like a snail would
Smother a pearl.
Windowpane
A bone is so much more than a friend
And black horses can take the Earth to the Moon.
It was not me who draw the night sky
To give it Babylon.
I am suspended in oneliness,
So much as an oversized stone
Thrown at her window.
Forgive me,
God has an incredible sense of humour.
Perched at the, so neatly,
Closed gates of her world,
She makes an effort
To retrieve the magician’s swords from my ribs.
A bone collection from our wedding,
Carefully boxed for mother to notice.
Her father, who loves God,
Also sleeps with men.
Words are kept safe,
Near fetish red shoes that sing Gospel,
And she never forgave Newton for science.
Knowing it’s too late,
She cries at night
Praying for me not to love her.
- The pane makes you darker,
And I keep throwing stones at the window.
Kerosene
We shall notice the last animal is the slave.
Sometimes I shout,
“Rush through the corn!”
Then I am a man, who is saluted with a cry,
“On your back!”
I reply with a song bound up in a sheaf
Dragged by a rope along the ground.
If the threshers catch me,
They handle me roughly, beating me,
Blackening or dirtying my face,
Throwing me into filth,
Binding the scorn on my back,
And so on;
However,
If the bearer is a woman,
They cut off her hair.
Sometimes after dinner
The man with blackened face is set on a rope
And drawn round the village by his fellows,
Followed by a crowd crying,
Calling, “Nigger! Nigger!...”
Sometimes,
After being wheeled round the village,
I’m flung alight on a dunghill.
posted by KINGSCARBINE at 01:33
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