poetry: from "Shards"- Serpent's Milk

I call the spirits
To burn my sins, to penetrate.
But all the sweating
and dancing does not sway Fate.

"Please possess me,
Make me pay
in cruelest turns and blackest pain.
For all I hurt,"
I cry and say.
But their answers hiss all the same.

"The serpent's milk.
The serpent's milk.
Only the hurt can serve you it."

When I crossed her,
four shades darker
fell upon my chains.
A shadow slithers--
won't come hither--
as I lie prostrate.

They whisper to me
"You cannot, through rattling
Snakes and your holy beads,
Earn from the crossed, pity."

"Then please help me earn
Please, spirits burn
Even if I must cremate whole,
For parched, charred clemency."

The serpent's milk.
The serpent's milk.
Only the wronged can offer it.

Take my heart and
bravest parts to
feed the fire high!
Grind my bones
to chalk your homes with
apotropaic lines.

"When lunacy stirs you,
Turn 'way from the Moon,
go to your harmed kin in the nude.

"Drink from their cup.
Drink from their cup.
You may heal.
You may die.
But only your victim's cup will suffice."

Only your cup will suffice.

(c) 2013 Luz Briar.

intermission: Orion's Poem "Unquiet Grave"

What an unquiet grave

A tomb so un-still

Howls rising in the night

The souls so dark and ill.

Now sing “Rest in Peace.”

You sing “Rest in Peace.”

What an unquiet grave,

We hear your foot falls pass.

Whilst we rant and rave

Your hands, they point, you laugh.

Laughing “rest in peace.”

“Poor fools, rest in peace.”

God’s cast-offs,

Live behind iron bars

God’s last thoughts

Were of earthly black scars.

For the lunatics need

These irons ‘bout their wrists.

For we lunatics plead

For death’s noble kiss.

Hell unsheathes in our eyes

The eyes of the weak

Wicked and then tragic

Avert yours when we speak.

You will rest in peace.

You know Rest and Peace.

Heretical writings

Ask you to touch the madman’s sick bare hand

Without your gloves.

Contagions damned!

Heretical writings

Ask that you visit this restless old grave

Out of your love

Even touch the mud

Leaving flowers with cards “from…”

What an unquiet grave.

Mad Earl poem: Doctor’s Help

 

(A break from fiction. Here’s a poem.)

Doctor’s Help

You only meant to help

You extend your hand

My advise; withdraw it, my friend

Some have lost fingers this way.

You only meant to preach.

 

You tonic is

A weak arsenic

You hand it to your friends

To keep them your subjects…

 

You only meant to treat

Doctor, as you are

Your advise; stay ill, in need

Of your cabinet—

Yes, you only meant to bleed.

 

Your treatment is

Breakage of limbs

Severed feet and leeching

Patients, for your keeping.

 

Tell me your intentions are good;

I would rather rot than commend myself to you.

 

Your aid is pain

Spewed diagnosis based

On your ignorance

And your empty well-meaning head.

(A/N: the fifth poem in the Mad Earl poetry collection. )

© 2011 Luz Briar. All Rights Reserved.