IF THE WORLD WERE SEXUAL TODAY

If the world were sexual today –
and let’s decide it is –
then it must be much like
the raven-haired improbably sweet
lean young dancer whom I saw this
morning on the subway – keen black

irises and alabaster skin and ebon
eyebrows like two painted wings –
pharaonic iconography made blood-
warm flesh: it would have dipped as
freshly, deeply, gracefully as the plié
with which he entertained his rush-hour

audience astride a silver pole
obligingly provided by the MTA:
it would have played the role he played
as he engaged my eyes as we got off
our ride at Twenty-Third Street –
and I told him how delightfully I thought

he’d danced for us – and he asked in
the accents of some middle-eastern
country I could not decipher
what I did – and I forbade myself
to answer that my occupation
was to linger sinisterly everywhere

to find such finds as him – so I just
smiled as he stood waiting for a cue –
which I denied him: ah, my New York City! –
yes, I knew of course I had to minister
instead to you. Everybody sighed:
he pirouetted out of view.

Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)

SO MOTE IT BE

The harlot red of devil jus
Has sapped blood roses blind
The pommes d’amour are weeping black
Mock tragedies of time

For I am the pinata
Swingin’ in the breeze
High above the arbor
Hung up on trapeze

And as I cast these shadows
Like deadly night shade spores
I reflect upon the meadow
My soul filled with remorse

To the saddened scribe, blessed be
To Earth’s diatribe, blessed be
To the heart plucked bare, blessed be
To the fire and air, blessed be

Ignite the balefire, children
A-Maying ye shall go
Deflower the hawthorn blossoms
Invoke wailing winds to blow

For am I the pinata
Awaiting the reprise
Festooned amidst the arbor
Observing silently

Draw thy circle widdershins
Then cast ye magick spell
As ritual is completed
Bid thee hail and then farewell

To the braying shores, blessed be
To the marshy moors, blessed be
To black bird’s refrain, blessed be
To the wind and rain, blessed be

And now good children, gather round
I sway to bear thy blows
Shattered hopes await me
As ye cast thy sticks and stones

For I am the pinata
Hanging in the tree
I am the alpha and the omega
In death, so mote it be

Wind my years in wool and flax
To burn on sacred fire
Bind my fears in sealing wax
Exalt the funeral pyre!

And to all that read this, blessed be
My life has been demolished
Again recite, so mote it be
Lest spirit be admonished

Viola Bow

SUBSTANCE DUALISM (PSYCHEDELIC PRAYER)

     Away with this bond of flesh,
one ounce blond, the rest
     ensconced in sagging error
no mirror can show; but
     the soul knows what
it’s tried to lose,
     fondue dipped
in designer clothes
     and shiny shoes, basted
in sex and booze,
     wasted on kaleidoscopic trips…

in my bathroom mirror-terror,
in black abysmal eyes,
the blurry daemon error lies,
‘this is all that is, all that will ever be…’

See soiled hands reaching
     from earth to sky, dirty nails,
egg pale in hard-boiled death,
     centipedes wriggle creeping,
hundreds of feet dancing
     on a face once so worried over
underneath the grass and clover
     the most delightful plans are spoiled,
oh pass over, graycloud breath, cold as shale,
     the blood is brushed upon the door
oh pass over this animal poor and forked…

Uncorked from clay I fly
and look for some diversion,
copper penny on my tongue,
sparks pop, fry, dispersion…

     When I was young I said a prayer,
Cain, encased in meat, raised his voice
     to One who was always never there.
‘Was there ever really any choice?
     Abel on my pillow sighing, can You hear
him, Lord, can you hear? This mark I wear,
     it weighs a ton. Do You even really care,
or do I just babble? Should I erect a tower
     of reasoned argument, do I dare?
I am aware, yes full aware of how I sound,
     just another static pop on Your TV.’

Brandon Lee Brown