Treasure Island

David McLansky

(5/24/1944 / New York City)

The Rite


The maidens chant the litany
That takes them to epiphanies
Clapping on their brass belt bells,
The mysteries arise and swell

The votive Priestess before the lamp
In the smoke and oily damp
Weaves her hands before the fire,
Her golden limbs with sweat perspire;
Shadowed Priestess in your tomb
Golden limbs stretching in the gloom,
You tresses snake about your shoulders
Burning hot, your eyes do smolder,
Your naked breasts stand at their peaks,
In your hands a sliver streak
She lifts the smooth skinned silver snake
Bids her Mistress rise and wake,
To open up the Timeless portal
To the land of the Immortals;
The snake curls 'bout her neck and arms,
Coils about her turquoise charms;
Down her shoulder to her breasts
Slithers down beneath her dress;
She lifts a snake that hissing lies
Between her squatting naked thighs,
Uncoils its body with her hands,
Lifts it up and rising stands
Before the altar in the cave
Sacred to the Eileithyian Maid;
In her hand she holds the knife
Sacred to the bloody rite
A blade of polished diorite
Sharpened for the sacrifice;
The Maidens hold the young boy down,
On his head a laurel crown;
The naked youth screams and writhes,
They cut his manhood from his thighs,
And holding up the bloody gore
They offer it to Mother Kore.

She holds aloft the bloody prize
Satisfaction in her eyes,
First fruits of the seeded earth,
What joy erupts, what heated mirth.

Submitted: Tuesday, July 02, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, July 02, 2013
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