I. The Burning Ones.
Holy, holy, holy
Burning Ones bellow.
They presume, more smattering.
Squat in cherubic dystopias;
Belittle to beggars in soggy moonlight.
II. Faulkner told me to do it.
I failed to listen and he fled,
Pen dripping the blood of his shadow.
The phantasmal spirit of Ginsberg
Haunts me now, Blake-light in propulsion
With my own light.
He is aiming a weapon at his own heart,
Caring only several moments
For the labyrinth he constructed.
He waits at the center where
Seraphim push him slowly
Through different universes and destinies,
Hoping for some surprise wonderment
When coming to rest,
That any dimension is not merely illusion
But seeks some end.
Kill your darlings.
III. Magnificent Moloch,
How much will my sacrifice cost?
What is the weight of my imagined spirit?
You are the Mind,
Your soul is electricity and banks,
Moloch whose love weighs down the pockets of bums,
Will I, too, sit lonely in you?
IV. Bloodcurdling sighs!
I can hear them emanating from the clouds!
V. We made love on some foreign salty sand.
The moon illuminated your naked posture.
I could not distinguish any outline
Of budding wings from my view,
Though I would have slaughtered one thousand perfect dreams
To believe that they were keenly sprouting
Like vines across your shoulder blades,
Glittering and wet.
Maybe they’re buried there still,
Beneath the rigid smoothness of your back.
Perhaps I can help grip them.
I’ll pull your wings free and we will make love again.
The tide touches our feet as the moon howls
For our insatiable desire.
VI. Yeats’ Circle has been broken.
I am not the missing element.
I will not mend a broken curve, however derived.
Contemplating the truth of everything
Obscured by numbers and spirals,
Expelling the fumes of madness buried in the mind
From seven decades ago.
Shoe gazing now blowing smoke rings.
VII. Show me the mercy you expel with your mouth.
How that ghost is just smoke
When it touches your black-stained eyes.
You close them too tight,
You let the cigarette burn to the edge of your fingertips.
You’re just a second closer
To that moment that has already passed.
VIII. Echo longs for Narcissus, for he is beautiful.
Narcissus, though, cares not to love her;
He reserves love for himself.
He looks upon himself in lust
Until death ripples the reflection.
We know Echo’s words are not her own.
IX. Crowded sepulcher,
No air for supplication.
Glows in the scratches of the tomb.
X. The fountain of youth is filled with blood.
She gathered vials of its contents
And stored them in a stone-shelter for safe keeping.
She would need them when the time came.
XI. We licked the elixir from each other’s teeth,
And gleaned voraciously for more of the taste.
We are warm and eager for some ultimate truth,
An ultimate light.
Instead, we are tainted like a Faulkner protagonist.
The ultimate truth is a paradox.
XII. Now I stretch myself in the tall grass
And stare at nothing staring back.
My heavy hands are open and dry,
And I could have sworn I heard you coming
With blankets all wrapped around your neck
That draped down to your thighs.
See, there is this dream
That keeps repeating in my head:
As I lay in the meadow
In the swirling moon’s silver light,
You will descend to me
And wrap me up tight,
Because I am cold
And drunken in sadness or madness.
You come to me glowing and radiant and free.
But I keep wishing on stars that all turn black.
by R. F. Yetter