Poem Offering: Life is Fucked Up Symphony, Eat It

[Lelle]

I hesitated to post this, and got: don't muzzle yourself. K!

Deeply enjoying loving my shadow-scapes. its hard for me. i hear alot in this. i have gotten more honest with my work the less i try and redeem it or change the way i am feeling - and i feel more *intimate* with myself than i have in a long time. it feels like a curing.

LIFE IS A FUCKED UP SYMPHONY,
EAT IT

I’m tired of acting like there’s
Something wrong with me,
While I scoop out wisdom
From dead-lands and babies hands,
petals, Datura.

Like subtle nuggets
To unravel false worlds
Of puer and patterns of pathology
Mind wounds, whole-making spaces
I feel like all farciful
Cards reversed, in a tarot-soliloqouy
Punctured possibilities
Of healing from scattering
Sadness that eats me alive

Every once in a season I am deep
I’m a wound, Mercury, mercenary
A nameless merit of muse and bane

Bell jar times. Deep rest depression
Runs in my family like
Wine runs in Christ’s body,
Something that’s magic manifest
But makes my whole world
Drunk on possibility of saving grace
While distracting me from the
Necessary dieta of clear sight
A sick king gets sicker
And I want for insight

That cuts out the delusion
Like a knife with my ire I conjure a fire
To cure myself clean of this and of that
Obligated incantations of what modernity
Has sold us
In a pick-pocket thievery

I want to marry Saint Francis and move
To the woods and make poems and make love

I wake up in the morning
I wake up mourning and think
Where my mind tunnels to is
A waste of this strange grace
And this world is a waste a
Caste-ridden cataract of
Goddess’s profane cow, an
Underworld Animalia

It is winter and I am tired.

This country’s well is poisoning my water
Belligerent bouillon unworthy of my time

An ancestors mask has been hunting me
Haunting me
Contempt that has caught many in its web
I curtail its caustic curses with my tongues
And it chokes on its own Omens
And is taken by an Angel
That is a Snake, singing its serpent song
And bringing Peace to the here-living
With my Poetry I banish the bat shit bitch back
To Her grave, groaning, Bleating Belly of
False Christ Curtailing my Hoofs
And trying to Highjack my Juice, inept
And feckless, a cock-less cross

The wisdom of my seasons of sadness
Are clean and curing like the desert
Where what isn’t essential must die
Let it die
You will not take from me any more,
When I am edge-walking and Faeric
You will not take any more,
A Jealous Jesus with no teeth and
Or animal Eyes to move in these
Spaces, un-useful and moaning

I have always been this way. I have
Walked with Hermes for centuries
Stoking cold light fires in the underworld
Psychopomp and poet, making love to the
All father as the days grow longer while chariots
Move wayward to heaven

I deepen and lengthen
God’s holy winter moon,
Devoted to Beloved and in the
Blasted lands, the bloated underbelly
Singing

What sound does Love make?
What sound does Love make?
Women will know when I am naming
The men have forsaken us

The deep wail that is disturbing to hear
Chasm, rises and it upchucks this poem
On winter mornings when I am sure Death
Itself is Hunger
Licking these Petals clean