Fragments: Canticle in Black


I

        cobwebbed hand, arched
To hang from the ceiling-star,
In fleeting dream suffocated,
Told         a lost county far:

Where your countess calls,
A sister in your bed, she falls
Again,

II

Still this Sabbat heart— sated throbs:
Slowsoft drumming pulse, Witching—
Kindest babe, branched bitter sobs:
Is that betrayal upon your stitching?

Do not make Agamemnon of me


III

Still this Sabbat heart— my white witch:
Glowsoft breast, where I lay my cheek—
This witching hour to tear a tender stitch:
          a sanguine day in Northern bleak

You shall make Agamemnon of me!


IV

Home: O! the word repels my grace to stay—
Instill in me instead the wanderlust
Of greater heroes
Wise in their own eyes: cleverly cleaved
By their own controll’d countenance.

Yet no more deceived in faithless ART
Than                       is of Godless reticence—
So like the Semite with the Law in hand,
Yahweh turns to all who his Name misuse:
Declare their sin as Sodom, they hide it not!
And sweep clean the Lord of Israel’s land:


V

Forthwith came LEVIATHAN— at his hilt
The notchèd sword Plagia, his birthright

And Shath, the Lord Below, Lucifer’s Father:
At his side, the Priests of Ancient Nemi,
Called for this one hour from darkest tide’s sigh
To fulfill their arcane purpose on earth,
Carrying censers streaming crimson smoke;

Lord LEVIATHAN, iconoclast regent
With his mother Lilith’s bloody rag


VI

As my sister calls, countess in my bed,
Deceive me from this living dream of death:
What I have wrought! o waking sin, I said:
Sister, why am I cursed to so crave your breath?


VII

      lustrous sight of Herod’s swinging scythe
Guide me sister dear to endless lustless night


VIII: A Song of the Damned

Blessed be our burning tongues,
For they did speak words in haste, vanity and arrogance.
Blessed be our writhing limbs,
For only flames will counter their bloody, murd’rous pasts.
Blessed be our sightless eyes,
For they looked upon the truth and it did not set them free.
Blessed be our scorched ears,
For they heard not the Word despite it spoken clear.
Blessed be our ashen nostrils,
For tho they felt the scent of brimstone, they tingled not.
Blessed be our melting flesh,
For we served it better than the God of Light.
Thanks be to the Father: and thank our Lord Satan:
He who delivered us to Fire, and he who stokes the Flames,
For we are where we earned to be:
Blessed be the Damned.

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