NECROMANTICA: a sonnet sequence
Some of us wear out, some rust. Devilkin,
dead love, what happened to you? I’ve passed through
gateways, played with a girl in a seal-skin,
slept with a wood sprite called Puck; I’ll tell you
why they call him Robin Goodfellow. But
you seem to have some unresolved business.
Like me. The first time that I was called slut
I burned the world down, in my head. Eros
does not protect those he touches; and, ghost,
we all need protection. If you kiss me
will you shatter in a shower of coals?
Or will you, like me, want more? It’s almost
dawn, do not leave. I’m alive and hungry.
Let us both resolve what’s damning our souls.
Freedom is not for the living, obsessed
with their soul’s salvation. The dead are, too,
but with their lost sex lives. You can be blessed
all you like, yet how bizarre the breakthrough
when the recently deceased realize
it was about being rude and smutty
with the gods through orgasm. All those lies
about how it’ll make you go blind, only
the hell-bound would say that. Orgasm
comes to you without need for a payment
or a promise. But why am I telling
you? You, who claims to know about freedom,
must know what it’s like to be pregnant
with mad need, praying to be touched, praying.
Grace flits by, a moment of bliss, then dumb
logic closes in. I drink and drink and …
I am a child of clay. Come, mold me. Numb
me. Tell me of salvation and dreamland.
Necromantica, indeed. Sparrows
fight near my window, then die, undaunted.
Each night a dead girl sucks on my ribs, flows
through me, the closest she’ll get to warm blood.
There are rational gods and there are mad ones.
I want neither. Just bliss. My stigmata
diaboli hurts. A kiss; now the air
withers around me. I have fucked legions,
sweated grace. I’ll save you from your dogma.
Come with me, cum with me, and rise like prayer.
Somewhere within your untended hedgerow,
somewhere tufted and leafy, sleeps curled up
a small hibiscus demon, all aglow
with need, like a drunk on rot-gut julep.
Aren’t we like demons; our souls are stingy
with love but underneath we weep for not
being touched, kissed, possessed. Celibacy
is a myth, darling. I know what you thought
that you could live – or at least love – alone.
I shall part your hedge like Moses, go down
into your bower, find that plum-blossom
brute, kiss it awake, watch it gasp and groan,
watch it purr; soothe your pain, smooth your frown.
Love shall make us a threesome.
“In this first testing ground of the atomic bomb I have seen the most terrible and frightening desolation in four years of war. It makes a blitzed Pacific island seem like an Eden. The damage is far greater than any photograph can show.”
Coming home in Lilith’s arms must I mount
the sand storm and shamble on toward ancient
Djenne-Djenno; together our names count
very little. What you call pussy, cunt,
bitch, I call mother, niece, aunt. I won’t be
the one who burns your vile house down. You’ll do
that; you’ll raise your own hand, for my story
is of a goddess who said no and who
met a priest wearing authority, cast
out First Wife, First Lover. If you must know
me then enter me like proverbs, grace’s
skin. All those words of yours, like a bomb blast,
simply damns you. Call me a Skank. Tease. Ho.
I am proud to be the child of Bitches.
one great truth
“The vastness of the desert frightened her. Everything looked too far away, even the cloudless sky. There was nowhere you could hide in such emptiness.”
— James Carlos Blake
To talk of Her is to talk of Eden,
a new religion barely two thousand
years old. The girl chased footprints while the sun
made tracks in the caravan path glisten
leading to one more heat mirage and what
do they make of that in Djenne-Djenno
voices on the wind where no one sleeps but
the girl herself and what did the pharaoh
know of the wide divine that you yourself
did not save that there is no one great truth
that all paths lead to a dried up water
hole. When I count bleached bones I count myself.
You pray to an old man, I pray to youth,
to a girl, I pray to the First Lover.