I have watched the black and white interviews with the poet on his ramshackle farm, quoting himself, word for word, his old muse near-suicidal, disposed to self-harm, and how dark are the later, silver years when the laurels clutter the poet’s head; it is enough to bring a man to tears, if only allergies when eyes are red. He writes so little verse, but acts a script writ daily, with what life he may muster, his mask such as is in a pharaoh’s crypt, sometimes lacquered, sometimes just lackluster.
O, I hear the bean sidhe—she is shrieking in schoolyard and school hall, the fell, bleak thing sounding an alarm for the many deaths when goodly youths shall draw their final breaths while old men diddle and dither, at odds with one another, and their bloodfed gods. The gruesome Redcaps dip their dripping hats into crimson puddles like vineyard vats and a murder of crows descends anon from the shoulders of grim-lipped Morrigan and all youth is squandered in misty vale, blooming anew with rot and maggots pale till the ancient echoes of pagan song be sated in surfeit of age-old wrong, the wrong of wrongs such were long forgotten when clans clashed fiercely, each chief besotten with the blood-debts accrued in times before, that fateful geas that binds forevermore. Do nought for the dead but ponder and pray and be grateful that the capricious Fae demand no more than the youths hereby piled for their burrows and mounds and woodlands wild, for the Land of Youth needs our youth to bleed ere Tir na nOg be a place old men heed when nodding at their thrones as if glamored and impotent, their weak hearts enamored of the Cailleach, that old baleful elf who enchants to think only of the self as the long winter of old age reigns on in those resentful of youth, their youth gone. O, our country is as the headless wraith, the Dullahan, that runs forth with a faith steeped in blood, cracking a whip made of spine as if backbone is enough to consign the peace hungered for in our times of grief, times when blood-stained blade oft slips from the sheath… but we’ve lost our heads, and the youth their lives, as old men nod, ignoring Elphame tithes.
Lingering ghost, wraith without a head, standing beside the four-poster bed, reminding us of the missteps made and things left undone, the bitter trade of thrills for comforts from a routine to thwart the unknown, the unforeseen so our lives are secured by the rite of habit, of caution, day and night. She stands there, as headless as our lives while steadfast in scheduled nine-to-fives, the ritual headless, saying nought, yet we know she would say that we ought to have done more when we had the chance, but each night we lament circumstance, for she attends us at our bedside— attends forever, our deathbed bride.
The impact of a small raindrop on the mirrored face of the lake makes tiny rings, a silent plop, with wavelets fleeting in their wake. Was it similar to the rock that struck the earth, that asteroid which the ancient gods watched, their talk calm as ancient life was destroyed? Perhaps the great gods did not care about rings so small in their eyes that they did not see the lives there burnt and buried, or dead elsewise. How will they look on the event that will destroy the human race? Will it appear as how it went when the K-T event took place? Will we pollute our lands and seas like yeast feeding on corn and rye, distilling poison like whiskeys to succeed so well that we die? Perhaps the end will come to pass like faintly flaring warhead fire, a will o’ the wisp of swamp gas making of us a firefly pyre. Whatever end awaits us then, their eyes will pass over our death as mine do now—so peaceful, zen, as billions die between each breath.
Black spiders dwelling in the dark, weaving webs from their spinnerets— unheard, unhurried, unseen…hark! The bedposts are their minarets. Hourglass upon fat-fed bellies, crimson warning and silken spools, their prey melted unto jellies, kneeling husks becometh all fools. Creeping midnight venom-vigils, black prayers and turban-wound prey— the adhan signal, the sigils of an ancient faith here to stay. The imams rub their steepled claws in devotions to their venom, hunger and death the only laws that govern the soul within them. And their congregation trembles, the hollowed, hallowed husks bent low on rugs beneath bedspread symbols— what dreaded truths the husks must know!