Spice the thorn;
Split the night bloom
Two, then four.
Your kiss is the cat with the blood-bird held--
Your promise is the Gypsy with the well-oiled wheel;
Press me, honey, to the walls of the well,
Where the brick-water sweats and the rot-fruits peel.
Sewer flowers vased
On the table by the bed;
Six red hens
On the white sheets, dead.
Break the sugar stick,
Spice the thorn;
Love me for a little,
Then never any more.
______
this one is your fault, Brendan. you got me thinking about the undead.
Nothing like when poetry sings birthday songs with its bloomers down round its ankles. The spell here lifts a few roots from Hedgie's kitchen but renders in pure hoodoo honey. Homer's dead sang for black blood in a trough, but this liquor's quicker, thralls to the walls of the well. So if you kiss a zombie, afterwards do you pick shards of bones from your teeth? - Brendan
ReplyDeleteThis is a powerful incantation! Luckily there are no witch-hunters scouring the villages these days, m'lady.
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ReplyDeleteSorry, my earlier comment didn't
ReplyDeleteinclude the referenced 'witchery' because I was lost in my personal nostalgia of how erotic and lust filled your piece affected me. Nice piece and I've never, ever had this type of fantastical erotic thoughts. I swear (oops is swearing a mythical witchery type of predicate?
I think Lorca crept in there somewhere too, because this has the surreal edge of many of his deep-dug from the grave images, but the word dance is straight from the Fireblossom grimoire. Beginning and end stanzas are enough to lift the hairs on the back of my neck. Fine writing, Shay, however inspired. Sometimes a little Undead goes a long way in the muse factory.
ReplyDeleteSuch a rhythmical and lyrical incantation. I can see myself stirring my cauldron to this, and cackling happily. Fantastic, Shay, though I have never read a poem of yours that was not.
ReplyDeleteWoo, I'm scared now. That's one spooky, spectacular rhyme. I love it!! xo
ReplyDeleteLuv when you do that voodoo that you do so well. If I believed in magic spells, I'd use it! Ah, what the heck, where are those chickens?
ReplyDeleteGood poem, my friend.
I love the rhythm of this piece. "...against the well wall" (or whatever that line is--I didn't cut and paste) is a powerful image.
ReplyDeleteBoo-tiful!
ReplyDelete"Your kiss is the cat with the blood-bird held--"
ReplyDeleteThat is just purely brilliant!
Pretty please get Bonnie Raitt to sing this :)
ReplyDeleteThat's some good chicken-killing!
ReplyDeleteVery cool piece. Totally feeling the rhythm here, definitely could be a song. Great lines here. Thanks
ReplyDeleteI love your poetic incantations... make fear I may accidentally might cast a spell just by breaking a sugar stick or sometin'.
ReplyDeleteLove dis:
ReplyDelete"Where the brick-water sweats and the rot-fruits peel"
rosemarymint.wordpress.com
Love, love, love that opening stanza! This poem is like an erotic little spell!
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