by Ramon Elani
The one who bends the gallows,
Go down into memory and knowledge
On ravens’ wings!
God of carved knucklebones,
Traveler to nine places only known
By the women of the Stinking Nightshade
Wand weavers, horse penis graspers,
The ones who wrap tattered rags
Around the agony twisted bones of winter-dead trees,
To pray to wells and fountains,
To the rich earth slime that bubbles and froths.
Bog-haunters, Fungus-belt wearers,
They are buried in wagons.
They weave while their husbands fight,
And bind the feet of the enemy with invisible hairs,
So he dies screaming in blood.
Whose staff manly hands should not touch,
You have your wand and thread,
I have my fists and mad eye.
I am hanged,
You sit on thrones.
Your Smell Is Painted on the Walls of Ancient Caves
In afternoons haunted by the playful nostalgia of the present
I put my hand between your legs.
Your body opens a million eyes and looks for me,
It opens its mouth and talks to me
In a language that only blood understands.
Its grammar is made up of pulling and reaching.
The literature of that language
Is the way you move your legs
When it seems like they are loose and bound at the same time.
I can hear it talking to me,
Sometimes it moves without you moving it.
I can feel your body
Stretching out, extending a thousand fingers,
Grabbing me like an octopus.
Its one of those times when we talk
That we cross the boundary
Between the things that people say and think
And the dreams that describe how things really are.
Your sex is deep,
Like the abyss we all remember,
The one that swirls in the center of galaxies,
Where the Greeks imprisoned reckless gods,
Like holes in limestone rock,
Excavated by thousands of years of drips,
Sweaty with the riot of millions of thin skin-stretched bat wings,
Heavy and close, where the air is rich like soil
And pyramids of guano give birth
To generations of crawling things with many legs.
In the heart of the burrow is a pool
That reflects mysterious lights you can’t find.
I dive beneath the waters
To find its source
In upside-down castles and cathedrals,
Where the quiet music of eternity
Resonates in liquid darkness.
After, I tell you that your smell makes my soul move,
Go back to a place I can only remember
When I see swaying trees at dusk
Or when the light caresses the clouds
The way it does in the infinite childhood that we carry with us.
It’s the smell of a sunset over low grassy hills in late summer.
That smell returns me to an ancient place.
You tease me: “my pussy smells old?”
Yes, old like drawings on cave walls
Of women with buffalo heads.