“…he whose intense thinking
thus makes him a Prometheus;
a vulture
feeds upon that heart for ever;
that vulture
the very creature
he creates”
I am
Imam
manikin
voyaging for disciples
new followers
of the old discipline
passing the standard tales
to teach the master's calling
reading, some of His signs:
Collected Wisdoms of the Devil, to and from his Own
each sign is engraved
around the witching circle
the guidelines
of our order, measured out
in little histories
and so,
at one o'clock
on the clock
the cutting hour of sure hands
a black and silvery-grey shadow
stretches past the hours
passes the glass on the Necromancer's face
the great ivory hand stretches
towards fading lights and squeezes them dim
at the edge of obscure woods
intermittent ticks and figures
and this is how
the work is done
the work of a mantled Figure,
of a grave Digger...
finite little histories
on an intermediate loop:
Temptation
'now I take the breath of a child
who's father
riding in the night
it's nearly two
holds him tight
the father denies my visions
my shadows on the walls
but the boy can't help but listen
and see my daughters glisten
as they beckon-slow
the dark woods
render
unrelenting
the cold fingers
when the boy swallows for air
as the swallows, who know that I am there
sing
the hand swallows his heart-whole
and another is claimed
by my heraldic art
which can paint
so dark and swift,
and outline in silver threads the greyed images that pass as the child passes,
before a father's eyes'
Temptation
'and at four o'clock
at four o'clock I spin
I spin straw
but the maiden doesn't know whatfor I spin straw
whofor I tell you
I tell you you say it enough and its true
whyfor I tell you and swear you spin it enough and its gold
let me ask you,
what it matters?
have you guessed my name?
I spin and wait
and dance in gaits
awaiting the long arm
a campfire
a portal, flame-tongued, forges glass
the see-through wall that lets you hear but not touch an ivory'd-wall,
but later:
slowly, tell me
have you guessed my name?
the swallows,
the swallows a-perched a white tree, herald the nearness of a hand
verily I say: the devilz told you that'
Temptation
In a summer of our midnight witching
on the clock
the hour
where the ivory tower
is fixed amidst the squawking
of a thousand-thousand bony hands
through the glass
one hears the ticking of a spell
one hears “the whiteness of the whale”
one means that from atop a high place
has returned the necromancer that burns bright with off-white-flame
has returned the little spinner, story-teller
the heat of an infernal forge is heard singing
psalms,
the blasts of a desert ringing is heard singing
songs,
the swallows are heard in their hunger eating
sons,
the hand
the hand reaching from out its robe-sleeve grasps
at the opportunities presented
devil woods
tower gypsies
or cloven imam-manikins
all
workin’ til the mornin’ falls
upon my little terrorists
I am the Imam…voyaging …in the dark woods…until our hour dims
“Swallow thine, manikin! White skin, white liver! ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem