Writing The Tiger

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


Poetry

Submitted: March 24, 2018

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Submitted: March 24, 2018

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WRITING THE TIGER

 

By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright, January, 2017

 

“Speak of The Devil and he appears.  Speak of him long enough and 

Passionately enough, and he will speak of you.” ~Robin Spriggs

 

 

When you are upon me, my Predator

Emperor of Damnation, Madness

‘neath the golden broken crown

Cocked on your head.

Splendid the blue-green Peacock Light

Spreading between your eyes.

 

Mists of Fog and blood and bond,

Enfold in ancient mystery.

What, pray tell, is our history,

That you cannot yet decide

If you want to share desire with me,

Or chew my red heart from my chest?

 

I'm thinking,

"This is a jungle dream sequence . . .

I shall soon awaken

In my chilled four-poster,

Any moment, white fists

Sweating a knotted sheet,

My Karma quilt, crumpled

On the floor like afterbirth.

No man who looks like this,

This Devil prick could bed me!"

 

But lust took you then,

Where it hauls men,

In its red chariot, wheels afire

War-driven, Blood-fallen,

Rage and murder on your mind,

Yet you love my blood divine.

 

Beige fur your rocketing body -

Damp on my breasts, my thighs, my words

My liquid art, stirred - rising, coiling

‘round the unbound Page of you. And landed.

 

You shouted and came like any man

In the arms of a woman living.

Guttered into verbal breathings.

And your pale eyelids fluttered.

 

Light perked throughout your spirit, Shade,

Shedding scales of your Covering Snake.

All your antique language sharing

Rare tales in my willing ear, awake. 

 

You’re heavy, Satan, when you’re full of Love,

Aligned in Lightning, sated by your Saint,

Bully Vandal, all my words cast out,

Dead around you while I emptied your pen.

Now you can’t write of me, I said!

 

Man of your own abandoned Station.

Around whom I did not revolve, counter Venus,

’Til even my spine was rotated right.

Spinning Sin for Generations

Millions us!  Your own blood donor.

And still you thought, “And still I own her.”

 

What is stranger than man making

Seed?  Frond, needle, sepal, stamen,

Tiger ruts a moist valley.

How exotic, your green pulse!

Bright your deviant seed in my empty womb.

 

Viking hair, I feed my hand with strands.

Say your name, you consume

My voice.  The Peacock Stone sheds colors,

On my Being. A rainbow god. You.  

Trade energy for my Light.

 

Your breath hitches . . .Sighs.

Slow grin of recollection.

Recognize me?  My energy might last you a month.

Where did you go, lover?

Babe, best friend, Spirit Lord. You promised

We would go everywhere together.

 

Blood bibbing your lips.

Old lies in your lethal eyes.

Scorched smells, hot-landed tread,

Claw signs etching long soul damage

On my papyrus skin. Ferns in my hair!

 

Who are you to wild ride on me,

This Scripture of Djinn passion

Then say to me, a fallen woman,

You cannot write of my Fallen Light?

 

By your invalid words, Ape Poet?

For I have drained your sacral core

As I have of women long before and

I will after you. 

 

I wrote you well enough, Sir.

Come up as the sun, Bull God,

Slayer of Life, Love, Art and Women.

The Wordsmith or the Conquerer,

Who will they remember longer?

 

The halo ‘round my pen or your

Dead victories of Our Souls?

The Scholar or the Wizard?

The Princess Christian or the Prince of Hell?

 

In your arms I read the Signing

A Comitatus Troth Triumphant

Blood print on a bonded parchment

Long Signed to keep you living. See!

Dark ink already faded in my living veins.

 

Your virility landed agitated, Dark

Intrusion for Transfusion. Satisfied you sprang,

Go, Maratona, your Armada born unfriendly

To a lone and mortal Mind, my carnal sweat.

 

Glowing scroll, red seal, my troth,

Unfolds and curls in a violet flame.

Life Book reading, Debits red 

Inside my Light-born Sacred head,

Hunting you, I search within it,

Find only my owned name, instead. 

 

 

 

~~Dedicated to the real Lucifer, whom I will never, despite my certain determination, be able to forget.

~~ This poem is a romantic translation of a true event. You said I can’t write of you!


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