111) Droughts along the Mesa
[Mesa Verde: 1200-1300 AD]
Written after visiting Mesa Verde [8/04], and walking among its renowned cliff dwellings in its 53,000-achers National Park; the author was captivated by its legacy. The cliff dwellings were only occupied for some 75-years before the inhabitants moved south due to the 24-years of droughts they had to endure.
And God called the dry land earth.—Genesis
Sorrow on sorrow the droughts brought
So many deaths it had gulped, gulped up;
The blood, flesh, the bones and the marrow
Shapeless, final, incinerating—
It could not digest all in a day,
And so it took 24-years, and stayed.
Death faces, scorched lands and trees,
—spirit ancestors, along the mesa,
Their macabre shadows laced with light
Within the cliff dwelling of silent nights.
(Living on forgotten memories.)
Cries the ancient ones, the Anasazi
(of days past):
“A thousand lungs rooted to hearts—
A thousand tombs, and empty guts;”
Murmured a bowel-empty: ‘Why must I die?’
*
Brains starved to death for lack of water;
Eyes weakened by battling the droughts;
A thousand faces ten-thousand ribs:
A thousand tombs and empty guts—
Strangled for the lack of wind.
A thousand cliff dwellings now tombs,
Along the mesas and valleys of stones:
Cry, cry, like dead crows that lay—
Lay over the once young breasts, now dead.
(That once laughed instead.)
[The drought— the drought:]
Over men and women’s bodies,—deafness,
Deafness of the drought; burst ear drums—
Ear drums that shouted, for hunger and thirst
Now these bodies are empty without souls.
(Like dead flowers without stems.)
Expired now, they knew the drought
The drought would outlast them….
The drought, gaping, and gulping with greed:
The ancestors wept upon their knees,
“Keep your fingers moving, deadliness ahead.”
And the worms kept creeping deeper in,
And up and through the eye sockets
The whole earth was its tunnels, as they coiled,
Through the pores and blood-dark doors,
Open-rusted veins never seen before.
*
“Move, move on to other lands,” cried,
Cried and screeched the Ute and Anasazi!
(To the living of Mesa Verde)
And the streets closed forever
And the cliff dwellings closed forever
And the dead lay where the’re buried
And living abandoned forever the dead.
(Forever—Mesa Verde.)
August 6, 2004, #351/published on the internet sight useless-knowledge.com
112) The Devils
Windless Chamber
For the devil there is no wind—
There is no breath, only a chamber
Where the blood between the thighs,
Awaits—awaits the day: the day
Long life—chains him
Like an eagle clinging, clinging—
To mason walls, faceless stone walls:
Walls collapsing with brittle bones,
Earless, eyeless, walls of stone.
Here speechless worms appalled—
Watch and wait, with pulsating claws,
Murderous claws that want to reach him:
To eat his marrow, and suck his salty blood.
*
His hands tremble, and his heart pounds.
Something grabs his arm, his throat—.
His horny head, his egg-shell eyes,
His shark-teeth—all scream, yet chains remain.
He beats his chest and cracks his face;
With scorpion legs, he kicks his belly.
He snatches from the wall dirt to eat.
He stands covered in brackish blood;
Worms watching and waiting—waiting.
He drops his head, like a sword tossed
Like a sword tossed to the ground—.
“From dust to dust,” he murmurs,
“Let me die like a god!”
*
The devil clapped his beak, scratched it,
He looked for a sip of water—
And cried to heaven—
But no one noticed, not anymore.
Yet, yet still he could hear his heart pound,
As a strange silence came about,
And the dribble from the worms, longed.
8/24/04—#352: written on the The day Pompeii died
113) The Witch Speaketh:
Once witches danced to plenilunal magic,
With weak souls to molest—;
And ah, yes, way back then,
Sin, boldly robed men—of virtue,
And witches, robed—their piousness.
8/26/04 #355/Publushed on the Eldritch Dark site
114) War and Empty Shells
The life that was once in these
Young and vibrant bodies,
Are now like hollow shells—
Gone are the once, beautiful-self’s;
Where once a heart-beat dwelt!
From nothing, to nothing,—
They came and left;
Perhaps—: perhaps it was best,
For inside of war—we’re but living shells,
Obedient to heart-beats, if you will.
Now, all but empty, deserted shells—
Left on the battle fields.
*Poem #357, 9/2/2004 [part of the story, “Yesterday was a better day,” a short story of Vietnam]
115) Ol Henri Sanson
Ol Charlie-Henri Sanson
With just one swing—
With a sword could bring,
The condemned head off:
Quicker than an ax and block.
Note: The Charls Soason family, held the title in Paris of executioner from 1688 to 1840: the official title being: ‘exeuteur des hautes oeuvres de poris,’ #368 10/10/04
116) Forced Silence
The scold bridle, the gagging strap;
Scorned by women, long ago,
Was cruel….
#367, 10/10/04
117) Purple Twilight
(In tune with her mood.)
Lit with sad stars
was a dreamlike, melancholy
purple twilight
that bred subconscious fears.
Then, hidden under her pillow
in an open book
(she was slow to admit
she found life disappointing—)
she found a slip
of an old manuscript,
it read: ‘I shall never know
but only doubt, if life is
hidden behind the clouds?’
#366 10/10/04
118) Clap of the Eye
Again she walked
Eyeing the passing faces
With nervous-distrust
Her stages of life—
Recurring to her
One after another
She boarded a bus
And was carried away
From the crowd and glitter
Of the world she knew
To a narrow, dingy street
With glasshouses of windows
Inside it grew hotter and hotter
She became anxious
The conductor said [shouted]:
“This is your stop!”
The bus slowed down
She got dizzily to her feet
In a moment, on the pavement
She found herself alone
Her pilgrimage straight ahead
Everything sooty-glass
Balconies with burning fire
(So it seemed)
A vast horde of cries echoed
(Peeled her skin like the wind
Humanity was not present
Without purpose it seemed
And without hope
She ran as if the devil was near
Stood panting, stomach sinking
She squeezed her hand
Denying her misery
Where was she in this?
In this evil labyrinth—
She wanted to faint, weep
She perceived one consolation:
She’d never marry again:
Not for money or adoration….
10/8/04 #366
119) Allen Ginsberg
[The poet’s game]
He leaps, and leaps, upon his knees—
A little messy if you please:
The phantom –boys, he so adores,
He masturbates: for hours more.
The Poet-man—says so:
He thinks they are, playful toys—
Obliged, obliged he cries: by name,
Fuc…ing their ass, and pubic manes;
To molest—their growing pains.
Allen Ginsberg’s, poetic game.
120) Blackblood: The Beast
[Sub-sonnets I]
The beast that eats me in the eyes of all,
This hate, this craving, this insensible thing,
That has bled me dry as the snow flakes fall,
Will puke, will vomit, and fade by summer.
My wounds will heal, my fate will abate,
The entwined anger will subside in the beast;
He will forget within hells summer heat
My look that is today his feat and breathe.
Unharmed, somewhat, from a scorn so deep
Though I should hate him I cannot do:
Revenge is deadly: blackblood in the soul,
Sharp like an arrow, with burning red coal
Blood from his attack a double edged sword
Will never heal between beast and Lord.
#359/9-18-04
Blackblood: Strange and Fatal
[Sub-sonnet II]
Nay, wicked dictator, with fire worm flesh
“Sweet country, my loves have pity!” he cried.
Lo, the evil, the blackblood in his flesh
That rips the red-hearts out, all now dead.
An’ you, who didn’t think in human terms,
Filling dungeons and graves with piteous woe;
Upon your throne, dreaming or awake,
With an empty heart and Hell for a grave
Your mortal breath, ministers only death.
Now, now you thirst confessor of no sin,
Yet should you be free, free to call my name
You’d surely summon me to be slain.
But that I would not boast, if I were you—
Upon your dubious veins resides evil.
Blackblood: The Window
[Sub-sonnet III]
Disdainful dust, comes within an hours rush
You will be weight and brought to bed with him.
When you are dead, no more storm-filled eyes:
When your blood will roar and roar, yet be rust
This moment, plainly visible like green grass
The world will sing in delight of your past.
Your body’s heat and sweat desirous
A shameful kiss, obscure—from Satan’s mist;
Wherewith you, you will remain powerless—
To evoke, choke yourself from the whims of court.
Your bewildered dead heart will have no peace
Fluttering at the ravished winds of time:
Cry, cry as you may, cry will not let you go
For you are the fluttering beat by the window.
#360 and #361/9-2004/ Published in October on the Eldritch Dark Internet Magazine site
121) A Garden with Voices
I hear them in the garden—
I feel them from my door,
A flower is a face to me,
With eyes that have no scorn.
The Dandelions are white today
Blossom-balled they seem
The Calla Lily stems are tall:
Sensuous—with youthful green.
I wonder if it hurts to live—
I mean, like you and I?
Enlightened by the centuries,
I wonder if they cry.
Death is once, and comes to all—:
The reason, I know not why;
But jealousy, I see is nil,
Within the garden’s eyes.
Crickets, bees and butterflies,
And honey bears to boot—
All prefer the garden, like me:
To walk on top of roots.
So whether it be runes or rimes,
Piercing comforts or divine—
Leave me in the garden walk
To listen to the garden talk.
(I leave this world to thee.)
#358 9/13/04 dedicated to VM
122) The Mistress elf
Down the stairs with prancing feet
The Mistress Elf walks up the street;
And by and by she walks her pace
From fall to winter to early spring.
And hiding in her secret place
The Mistress Elf grins at fate;
An eerie kiss she carries with thee
And—curses the wheeze, within the trees.
O! cool dim, and frolic child—
With waxen ears and shielded mind,
Your stars are chained to your heart,
Stop and think before you start.
A soulless earth, with vanities:
Her first true love, I can see—.
Love for time, space and things,
Is but a childish dream.
The light in the eyes is greater than thee
She does not want to die—I see;
To live here and now in piety,
To live and die in mystery.
Why then—not a cup of wine!
Bitter-sweet, with lure repine
‘Ts all that’s thy, Mistress—Elf.
*Inspired by Alyce Ornella/and the Yam Yam Elf’s [#365]
By Dennis L. Siluk/9/30/04
123) Orange Twilight
Snow on earth falls gently, gently falling,
Where more dark days lie
Eerie is the voice that calls all, eerie calling,
At orange twilight.
Hate, I hear thee
How gentle, how eerie his voice is now calling,
Never answered, and the dark snow keeps falling,
Now—and then.
Light to our hearts, O hate, shall die in the cold
As his eerie heart is slain
Under the thorny twilight, his heart decays
In the grumbling white-rain.
#361/ 9/25/04—Published by the Eldritch Dark Site
124) Beauty Denied
Beauty is beauty:
different or prepared,
accepted or denied,
irritating or stimulating
When was it —
not beautiful?
If you can remember,
then it was always
beautiful—: thus, this
was beauty denied,
now accepted….
#362 9/26/04
125) The Death Rattle
‘Thou will not return
The dead await ye!’
The earth replied,
With a leap—
Form of a shadow
Trampling my bones
All the way down—down
To the House of Darkness—
Home of the damned:
No doors, no bolts,
Men like wild animals.
—The earth opened its legs wide,
Said, ‘There is no cure for this,
One’s fate is settled!’
#369 10/13/04
126) The Hyena Demigod
Head of the Hyena
[Part I]
The long night
The first glow of dawn
The Jackal, lion, wild bull
Mourned the death
Of the Hyena.
They cried:
“He is dead, he is dead!
How can we bear this sorrow?”
(like a woman with birth pains)
The wild deer, leopard
Ragging in the wilderness—
(gnawing at their bellies, restless).
But the god’s of the underworld
Would not hear—
For they wanted his head
Like a scorpion prizes his tail.
Journey of the Hyena
[Part II]
Darkness was inside the tunnel
Inside the tunnel it was deep
Deep darkness that lead to the gates;
Nothing could be seen: behind,
Along side, in front of the Hyena;
No breeze, no light, emerged.
The gate keeper appeared—
Agaliarept, the Henchman was near,
The Hyena looked up, saw them standing
He shouted (face burnt like coal),
Maggots crawling from head to toe,
As he leaped from the dark—
The demon severed his head,
Placing it upon Agaliarept;
As his lower body turned into clay.
The Prized—Hyena
[Part III]
His head was now hollow
His cheeks were ravaged,
His eyes frozen, burnt black
His crooked teeth, yellow
His facial muscles pained
With anguish—
Agaliarept had many heads:
The bear, lion and leopard
But the hyena was the prize.
“The god’s of Hell envy me,”
He cried—(unsleeping-undying
Demigods, shadow-gods).
“This is the way of the underworld,
Death drags all away,” he whispered,
Whispered to the pile of clay.
#369/10-16-04
See Dennis’ web site: dennissiluk.tripod.com dennissiluk.tripod.com
Soul of the Devil (Ritual of the Macabre)