I dance in the skins of sages,
sistrum in hand like Sekhmet’s harem,
gyrating in time to the beads,
blood runs like poppies down my breasts.
I scalped you in the gloaming,
pilfered the secrets of your skull,
then sewed back the flesh with
you as a traveler.
You will walk in valleys of twilight,
quest after Lovecraftian beasts,
slay them with words,
don their hides,
smell of gore.
You will bear the fur of Enkidu,
walk the wild, be a thing of the
tempest, like Caliban cast from
his witch-mother, find no peace,
just bloody feet.
Your path is a thing of the angels
of whirling dervish delight
of madmen who have seen God
and laughed to death
Madness will call like a siren
its treacherous beauty aflame
to the beat of a bodhran
you’ll march, follow marsh-lights
to the land of graves.
In the necropolis you’ll meet
your maker, the dirt from which
you were called. His tomb will
be nothing but moss, decrepit
stone, bits of yearning.
You will ask after all your travails-
And the answer to
will be silence.