Wednesday

Werewolves Saturday Night

Here in The Hells you hear songs:

Werewolves Saturday Night

Prophesied by whispers of claws on asphalt,
two wolves tear -
their barks like ripping books
and bone breaking stone.
They are larger than life - they bleed
and breathe smoke through long teeth.

Stretching like a black salmon
he downs her. They tangle,
a spinning mangled yang and yin
made fast with nails and fangs turning
like a hurricane. Her lipless face
fires like a gun
removing an eye. A belly opens
a paw thrust in.
They spin. . .

. . .A vise hugging a vise, silent. Her jaws
enclose his cock-eyed skull.
Steaming confounded webbed in entrails,
he kicks. She squeezes, aching for brains.
He kicks her further open.
Stiffening she snorts red,
and he sneers, suffocating,
pinned under rods of rain.

By daylight, they’re a human couple,
bald and pink and washed.
They fill the street like smashed sculpture,
steam slipping away like spirits.

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Saturday

Van Helsing Makes Amends

Here in The Hells you hear songs:

Van Helsing Makes Amends

Van Helsing unfastened the coffin lid,
peeled the crucifix from the bone-white brow.
pulled the garlic from the rust-flecked mouth,
careful not to touch the teeth.
He stitched back on the severed head,
and he blotted up evidence of Holy Water,
and, full of care, heaved free the hammer-frayed stake,
like Excalibur from the nameless stone.

Then rolling up his sleeves, he said:

"Now here comes the hard part."

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Wednesday

Daedalus With One Wing


You hear songs here:

Daedalus With One Wing

Wise Daedalus - with only one wing done -
fled before a mob
determined to string him up
and piñata the hell out of the man.
Running for his life,
he donned the one wing and,
triple-jumping to the cliff's edge,
launched himself,
leaving the bullish killers marooned.

As he made into the open air,
single wing outstretched on one side,
inadequate hand flapping
on the other,

he knew well that all
the weight of science and reason
would not support him.

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Tuesday

The Artist Prays

Soon after I arrived in the Hells, I saw an Artist.

This wretched little fuck - hateful little fuck - squatting like a toad, he had eyes the size of trashcan lids and little desiccated testicles.

Poor chap.

He'd been condemned to gaze across a smoky vale toward the hillside haunt of my hero, Sisyphus, and was required to describe, via any medium he chose, each of Sisyphus's attempts to push his stone to the top of the hill. Each description of the uphill battle was to be unique and original and new and unlike any of the previous ones - fresh.

Every time Sisyphus's rock finally rolled back downhill - with Sisyphus sobbing after - the Artist would approach his workbench, loosening his shoulders like a batter, and before beginning his task, would pray the following:

God of Apollo, God of the Muses, God of terrible Typhon,
God of Prometheus and God of Epimetheus,
God of Fools, God of Bards,
God of horsehair, grass, and planets
God of silver, oil, and ichor
God of rock and clay,
God of hands
God of all flesh, and all voices of flesh,

May my work today disclose You further to the world.

As I passed, the Artist threw himself at my feet, begging forgiveness for a life of ingratitude and self-centeredness. He made me puke.

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