Thursday night: I'm having trouble breathing through my eyes.
In that northernmost corner of the world, Thule, say,
over Greenland's steppes, the coven gathers to try
on fancy clothes and drink Madeira.
A cattish nun instructs on sloth and the sixteen sins
of the rosary. Lemur-gut lines every pot of boiling tea.
What can we hear of the landscapes of the luna moth?
Viol de gamba. Pestilence and bastardy, maimed
and cretin-faced at the city comedy-in Vallodolid.
The angle of the January sun betrays any notion
that this is farce: the projected image of a saturnalia
is enough to trick a mule back in to his skin,
at least in countrysides where Parisian soldiers
brutalize the girls and boys. These Carthaginians,
poor, sopped spirits to be bound and flamed
upon a spit and eaten slowly, will muse on the death
of god as if it was a lark. Bodies queerly disemboweled
jostle with homunculi, spinning a dark matter out
of this winter sky, into the spidery minds of those
who were the last to believe in... Reason.
I sit back as a cold moon rises over the park
where I write, rethink why I ever wanted
to look into the face of the Sabbath anyway.
Corn gods broken and abused, what's left is half
a crack of gin and my watery eyes. O modern wolfbane,
how to sing this, without perpetuating all the lies?