I. True edifice of rage
Being consumed by such force
As the hounds could bay
The gory shapes of apparitions
II. Siddhartha, your mind moves too fast,
There’s miracle in shortness of breath.
Siddhartha, oh how you would laugh,
The stranger has misplaced your flesh.
Siddhartha, your heart is milky black,
Keep that carbon concealed in your chest.
Siddhartha, the truth is at grasp,
Keep Nirvana all for yourself.
Oh enlightened one…
III. Wash my hands clean of this disease that doesn’t even exist
Up all night again with these wicked dreams that couldn’t seem more real
Process everything so slowly so slowly I slip into the dark
Become one with all that is has to offer
Chance for my thievery to become unnoticeable like the trees at night
Wish they would just move finally and set me free but I move slowly
Too staggered to reach for anything and get to my feet
Fall always too deep
Keep me floating please
Escape these blinding turns and curves and twists that pull at me
Stomach drops and I feel sleep coming
IV. Bloodcurdling sighs!
I can hear them emanating from the deep!
V. Some demon in the chains stops laughing callously.
Then she brushes spittle off of her charred lips
With a slow, solid black tongue.
She wants to reach out to the opulent master;
A familiar to the smoke denies binding.
But a God to the damned denies sympathy,
And her infertile little fire of a soul
Keeps flickering at a low pace
Until it is mended again
By the deep beginnings of a howl.
VI. We made love on some foreign frozen bed,
Locked in a dark dungeon.
Your spine tasted of ashen snow.
The icy convulsions of your body
Were more pleasurable than one thousand perfect dreams.
The rigid smoothness of your forehead
Could not conceal some budding horns,
Two spots of cold radiance
Pushing against your skin more
As you screamed with false ecstasy.
Perhaps I can thrust them down.
I’ll wipe my hand against your face,
Some desolate human touch,
And keep them from sprouting.
Cutting air touches our feet as the chambers laugh
At our insatiable desire.
VII. The Radiant Ones are
Shining, holy, holy.
They squat on black rocks
Amidst utopian fire,
Aiming fingers at
Eternal lovers who pull apart
Their own spirits like cotton.
by R. F. Yetter