The basilisk, that feathery serpent, shalt zeal and mealy diners shall burn the fat livestock until englutted but this arrowhead does not deter unless one such valiant god strums that homage to be paid in ringlets, like golden peaks that drip flaming golden wax, the climb is taxing but preeclampsia is not unmatched.
never over your
white-washed smile
words watered
with vibrant fragrance
fables
which filled my ear
linger clearly
as if they were now
shortly spoken
fateful flesh
fallen into nettle
&
burdensome briars
that since settled
at this whole heart
how had you found me
was I a litter of scrabble tiles
first, you spelled me
further, misspelled me
later, dispelled me
bad homme
burying sunlight
in bridal lace
& hollow vows
which vassalized me
chastised me
minimized me
& unmasked you—
solitary white
rose that bloomed
between those teeth
tumbled
& withered swiftly
in the wayward wind
never over your
basilisk-breath
black velvet tongue
threatening my life
scrambling joints
ruining sweat & tears
as every pore runs
red
becoming a river of blood
-
a place I'd rather
not be
~Running~ death steps behind ~ don't stop to tell how close.
Swallowing a clump of cacti. Throat skewers.
Aubergine blood clots. Cough, life's wick smaller.
Struggle effective so long ago, like swinging axes,
which kerf felled the tall tree and brought the timberwolves sorrows?
Can't celebrate on broken lips ~nihilistic providence~
the cancer of Hope eating body as it canonizes soul.
Roasting in this blue basilisk without a cloud over Hell,
lassoed by titian sands, shall our desert enshrine martyrs' bones?
Eurynome's great joy,
the Graces of her womb,
whose names transcend the tomb
like Helen's, famed of Troy!
Ah! Graces all enjoy:
they fill earth's space and room,
abhorring away life's gloom,
before the fates destroy.
If mankind survives, spring
reflects the sun's hot disc,
a brilliant fire breathing,
a dragon basilisk;
which these three Graces, being
Eurynome's, might risk!?
Praying to the light
Trampling the night's basilisk
With its seven heads
Crushing serpent and lion
Trampling the legless dragon
Through the light stream that crowned her
This is a bussokusekika poem, a form of japanese poetry with the syllable count of 5-7-5-7-7-7
This is based on the spiritual account from the Pistis Sophia Chapter 66.
Some say they are dead
or were never born.
We know they exist
because warm breath
leaves marks on a wine glass,
and when that breath looks back
they see through us.
In the basilisk black
or in the blind glare
they stare,
and behind their eyes
are mine and yours.
On the smoky periphery
of vision
they transpire
as weightless as spider bones.
They are what we see
in our cloudy mirrors.
They are our minds
as thought turns to read itself.
Some say they were never born,
never died. They merely answer:
You.
We know they exist
because warm breath
leave marks on wine glasses.
In the basilisk black
or bright glare
we stare behind our eyes
seeing them
drift into life once more.
As mind turns to glimpse itself
the ‘never born’
are there within the smoky periphery,
of a sight unseen.
*Basilisk's Support Group*
On the train to nowhere.
Tracks leading to the end, of another bottle.
Down goes the soupeur, knowing where the express leads thee.
Remaining complacent in a steady, off the rails attitude fills the gaping truth.
Steady like a sawed-off snowman with the carrot on a stick.
Sewing breadknives into the vast chasm of self-righteousness.
The river flows, yet the tropics of Capricorn see to its dissipation.
Even the piper needs to water their shrubs, basilisk.
The dark lake only buoys its own natatory denizens,
it allows some to swim, some to glide, dip or delve,
but those sombre waters pull down children
seeing them only as the cloud spawn of alien shores.
The waters are one unnatural creature, a sucking swirl;
a single stomach, that throttles, snags, and crushes,
it clogs the mind with the coiling swirls
of convulsive ghosts.
I am drowning, I fall upwards into a darkness
that contains no earth or sky.
The lake is a basilisk, it snakes into wide open eyes,
darkens the blood of small boys until they choke,
strangling on their own fear.
Decades later I awake, expelled once more
from the churn of its malignant maw,
still struggling inside a heartless embrace.
That cold lake remains within me to this day
It is a liquiform parasite that squirms in my dreams;
a submerged memory of my death - in waiting.
Your arsenal never seemed so weak
when you showed up after countless weeks
we didn't speak
you were living in the moment
Why does this tunnel light
never seem to close?
it leads me down this shadow path
I never even asked
about that overdose.
I twist I trip to intervene
come in between
now you're laying low
You're back to slipping suits
up your sleeve
wondering if you can breathe
wandering in this undertow
a scramble of need,
of ramble and bleed
of come and go.
I watched you leave
and couldn't believe
that I said no.
I bet on never being missed
swam alone into the ocean
dissolution into mist
atonement for no one
You came home pale
silent and grey eyed
you're a basilisk stare
of violence and failure
Unprepared
for what I found inside
and didn't want to know.
You faded away
became paint became frame
now I'm swimming in your ocean
You faded away
like stains or like rain
like words best left unspoken.
The sorting hat knew me well.
I had a pet Basilisk and knew where they all dwell.
I speak parcel tongue, but I do not like Malfoy
I am waiting, barely breathing.
The sorting hat is making all kinds of noise, like a raid
Spitting and snorting, I close my eyes, afraid of the result
You hate Malfoy? He screams, outing me in front of the hall.
Hufflepuff? Are you kidding? That was truly a stupid call.
Come back here! The sorting hat demanded, angry now.
I ran for my life, not eager to go back to that cow.
He chases through the hall while the rest of them cheer.
I go home to mama; maybe I will come back next year.
Don’t look in the mirror I cautioned myself
As if a basilisk was going to paralyze me at any second
I have read of them, and they eat mammals.
I wondered if this one would have to cut me up first
I am pretty big to gulp in a few bites.
Or will his teeth chop me up in a satisfactorily way?
Give me that mandrake root, I told my nine year old cousin. Just in case.
He was terrified. He had just finished reading two Harry Potters.
I loved it that I could use his fear to keep him silent and compliant.
I am evil that way.
The Nightmare King
Mighty autumn ruler
All powerful deity,
Travels on the wings of crows
Brings spooks and goblins out of hidey holes
Pulls basilisk out of swampy ponds
Gnashing his terrible teeth
Throwing knives in fearsome ways
Terrifying pumpkin fields
Dancing his Lewd and Eager dance
Lavishly spitting and spewing
Angry hot lava-like bullets
Arriving on the skeleton of a death dragon
The Nightmare King
Rules Halloween
In all his War-like glory
Terrifying us as we
Trick –or-Treat
Running on top of water?
Sure, I can.
No, you cannot!
Watch me.
I’ll be Dwammed!
The green basilisk puts out her hand for the five dollars.
Which is just heavy enough to drown her.
The chimpanzee smiles as his five dollars rises to the top.
Third time today.
Die twice exclamation mark.
Torment signaled basilisk
farce.
Die twice rolled,
freezing my snake eyes!
What a Soul you have!
And all your body a slit in
my perception,
a cut to deepen my ignorance
of what little I see of you.
Better I get a taste
than swallow you whole.
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