“Wasted Words: 12”

Things of dirty chaos
Smoke and thought

Bending to barren ethos
Prismatic void

Slur and sloth
Impetuous moment

Sneering the make believe
Dumbfounding oracle

The little voice
Draped in unreasoning

Every prophecy
Shamed into awe

by R. F. Yetter

 

 

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“Succubi”

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
Long sleep

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

“Seraphim”

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,
Impotent cloud.
Your soul is electricity and banks,
Heart eater.
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.
Clean masochism
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.
Yes,
You come to me glowing and radiant and free.
But I keep wishing on stars that all turn black.

by R. F. Yetter