Category: Poetry

HAIL THE OLD GODS

All Hail the Old Gods, for it is They who
set aflame the hearts unfeeling;
It is They who wrench the body through
with searing Life instead of Death, which
the White God brings shrouded as a
gift in shimmering golden ribbons;

Drink not from the well of the White God for
its nourishment is False; He is the father
of eternal servitude and wasted blood;
For He provides Death and calls it Life; and
in Death rejoice his loyal followers who even
in Life are cold as stone in the ground; chained
forever in the Tomb of the Slain;

Partake not from the body nor the blood of
the White God; For they who partake of Him
must be then cleansed of deadly venin
which sets outright to erode the Mind and
isolate the Spirit;

They who partake of Him are damned to dwell
within the Sepulchre of Servitude Eternal:

For He the White God casts them into chains
and seals closed the book of their Fate;
Their cold blood becomes Him and their eyes
cease to see the light of the Morning nor
the Fires of Truth; their soul is condemned and
chained to Fear, who masquerades as Salvation.

Heed not the word of the White God, for it is Fear’s
word:

Glory to the Old Gods for it is They who
burn the high white altar in reverence to
Life; it is They who keep alight the Fires of
Truth; it is They who are unafraid of Fear;
it is They who laugh at Fear and stamp it out.

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DEARLY BELOVED 

we built our home on a lone dirt track that the map said not to follow
and when you went hunting rabbits I was huddled in the dawn
a darkened mass of wool and bone and bowls all lying empty
squatting like a child in the dirt to search for stones
answers hidden in the hardened prints of hooves and clawmarks
left by better beings as they watched us keeping warm

but the frosted earth tore back my nails and pulled my lungs to pieces
and I couldn’t find you anything of worth
so I trapped a little bird and watched her struggle with her noose
and pretending I was elsewhere broke her neck
for freedom loses meaning when the blood is running cold,
the only thing important is the silence

I’ll light a fire with what I’ve got and pray that you will find me
one clawed foot, one iron needle, the burning pitch of an evergreen
my shaking fingers stretch her wings and
nail her above our door with little hope you’ll find her
she’ll call to you,
I can no longer scream

march 7, 2017. jrw

TUESDAY

itches i can’t name
all over this broken
thing all tattered up
and covered in holes
the itch means healing
but i can’t tell the new scars
from the old ones
anymore,
every day i stain something
else with my blood,
the pale gaunt face full
of larvae like a nervous addict,
which i am, and was, and will be,
til sliver by sliver with dirty nails
i tear apart the rest of me and
pick to pieces the remains still
searching for something
anything
of value

LÍNEAS 

todo tiene su límite y tú
tienes muchos
pero ninguna de ellos
sirve para mantenerme
lejos
de ti
una bomba química, lo llamas
esta cosa que nos une y nos
tortura como sal en las heridas que me
das y que te doy, rodillas raspadas,
piedras incrustadas en el piel,
falta de dormir y pesadillas de amores perdidos
y otros monstruos,
líneas de sangre, de cocaína,
todas esas líneas que tengo y que meto
entre tú y yo pero ninguna de ellas
sirve para mantenerte
lejos
de mí

UNHINGED 

spit them out, these wasted days and wet-green nights rising up from your esophagus to greet against anyone’s will your
lovers and your sisters and your friends and your parents make them
worry for you but never too much just enough to catch a whiff of the smoldering
human brains on stone tiled floors where
the
cold gets in so easy feel it creeping up the carnage contaminated by the time
it grabs your feet and legs to drag you under
i’m okay, i’m okay — you’re shoveling shouting reaching out to grab hold of whatever’s in reach
creamy rose pink with green sparkles dribbles thick makes you feel
safe watching feel the grip slip this is how we
fight our wars with pink with glitter with ooze like
crying all that bile from your eyes the sticky
worms running playground drills up and down your throat
red rover, red rover, why don’t you come over?
red used to scare you always creeping in or up
more often out
that drip drip down your shaking knees that
seeping out the gashes in your stomach like a watermelon past its prime now just remember– don’t eat the seeds, you can’t afford for anything to grow inside you, and neither can the anything– that environment is uninhabitable
for living things

GUERRA

eres mi guerra
por lo visto siempre
me hace falta una:
fíjate, el fracaso
del momento.

mira, hija,
eso te digo
pa’ que lo sepas:
has perdido
bastante tiempo
con las tonterías estas
de amor y de amor
falso, y de no saber
la diferencia.