juju LEVIATHAN ... of states, principalities and freedom

for she is small, angelic, beautiful 
and he huge, demonic, hideous
yet death, these,
is but an illusion
whose sorcery
is gender

whose eyeball
is flesh

and flesh is fear
or so the grave yard twitters

deeply into the night
of each daytime’s

tick tock


CANON I
portal


I found my brother’s coat, at last, the one he’d whispered to me about during his last few years.  The doctors and psychiatrists could find no basis for nor category of his ailments and psychosis, nor for his relentless unabiding physical agony. 

Inside was this note, written in his hand:

This poem I found stapled upon a square of flesh impaled upon four gleaming golden nails by its corners,  upon the door of an old cabin, ancient, in the deep mountain lows of some forgotten forest depth. I was shocked to notice the flesh was warm and looked for all the world as though it were healthy and alive, a most unpleasant thought, and so I averted my eyes to recover my composure. Upon the ceiling of the cabin’s outside porch upon which I stood,  a blackened oxblood smear  quite possibly an old blood stain, difficult yet not impossible to make out above this grizzly discovery.  It read, juju LEVIATHAN, a most odd phrase, but which inspired me to open the door and look inside where I beheld a beautiful child with golden hair and deep, abiding blue eyes, much too large for its charming head.  The child rose into the air, I fell to my knees and wept as she floated towards me her arms opening and the room glowed a divine hue, yet darkly. 


but then, she began to change, dividing.......

and so further, I write, within this, the three canons of my final moment of sanity —


CANON II
states and principalities and freedom

she approached,
her flesh
oiled,
fragrances
enveloped me
like flesh her pink tongue
moved upon my lips

and she whispered these:

Beginning of wisdom
its madness
is fusion
of us

an

instant of dark light
restrained, held
tenderly, kisses
until it rises
dark petals
embracing your tongue
drinking from it
your lies
down to
a
white
elegance

is fusion
and I  am

a

Great yellow thing deep
inside the great artery
your pink tongue hides,
I crouch as chilblains
upon new dead backs’
instant of death’s first joy


I am

forceps
I withdraw your tongue
and i suck from its gently slit end
supple summers,  their eaten delights’
murderous rampages
I am flown dead bird shadows
love fell in the wake of
into my yellow skin

I am fusion, I sing 

my pink eyes close to slits
your blood gorged
turns my skin orange
as the hypo I pushed
into your eyes
slowly during hours
your screams brought
my heart a merciful
reckoning your new
marble eyes bulged within
above your gagged mouth
kissed as I became
distraught by your begs
these turned your voice
into bubbles of gray light
your eyes these flowed
and took my deafness away

you are now
prepared

fusion


I moan.
worship you
my bonds’ yours
across your
pieces’

fusion

am repelled by your magic
its hold upon your heart
still dark towards me
had offered you
truth,  you asked mercy

had given you new
places your teeth made
into your gums
I sliced horizontal
escape paths
for extrusion
my slow burred drill
sloughed out

you begged to die
as though I’d taught
a fool

speaking through old socks


this taught you nothing
though you make sounds
my shaman lovers made
as my angel baby baby
drew them into her womb
Oh, how they chose
light into darkness
to wisp of her
sweet, pink
tongues
along her tender
white thighs

this thing you’d laughed at —
she, my darling angel oddity

do you see me now,
my sweet, sweet fool.

and ardent, lover fool —

She grew dark, her beauty rose
and she clambered upon you naked
sought your arousal beyond itself
into her savage curves
you were teased to madness
as she caressed your whole all


her breasts that boast nipples
dark mounded ridgletts
deep in oxblood sheen
ready for war

and your money

you cried when she’d strapped you down
and plied your lips with hers
one at a time
each in its own turn
its endless endless turn
her thighs oiled and precious
darkened thigh blood
sunk deep to her bones
her pond eyes
as she took your mouth
and inserted you
between
her thighs
inch by inch by hour
her expert hand
stroked your soul away
its sublimation with air
your mixture was no solution
only mere layers of desire
she cooed her refusal
to allow you
to come

as air above a rotted corpse

for hours she held you there
clamping her buttocks slowly
along your penis and so so gently
she’d turn, clamber upon your chest
her knees pressed into your neck
your initial sighs of joy
long since grown dark in their own gush
her mouth her tongue took you whole

yet you remained

unenlightened


you will remember
each boiling drop of oil
numbered by the surface area
mathematics of your skin
her tongue she coos into your ear
as she removes your twitching eyes
a bit at a time

her gentle kisses her moans
as she plies her trade
all over again
with the letter opener
slowly through your vocal chords

as I come into her ass
stoking her thighs

as we finally set you free
some three days’ oil droplets hence

in the sounds you make
you become
oddity

fusion
unto each new one
who enters these portals

hers, and then allowed to flow



and so a good citizen is born


yet, we
kings
powers
principalities

are but matter


and not fusion


CANON III
The Games of Torments ... and freedom

years later, I became aware of the innocence of the game he’d gone to play.  You see, culturally, there has always been a connection between the divine, the infernal and the world of the dead.  There is a game few play, yet some gain enlightenment by its merciful horrors of pleasure and light.
This is the game of torments.

When you mercilessly, slowly, imaginatively torment someone who has voluntarily submitted to being tied down in order to be over stimulated sexually over a long period of time, bringing them to the point of orgasm and then expertly pulling away your yearned for attentions, not all at once, but a little at a time so as to assure their ardent begging does not diminish, restraining them so they cannot move, not allowing them to even move their lips, not even to twitch without semi suffocating them by holding their nostrils closed as a lesson, you eventually begin to go beyond their physical yearning into a realm of divine magic, for them.  You may not experience this divine magic, but you must know of its slowly opening petals by the utter calmness they begin to exude as they simply melt away from the ropes as though exhaling much more than air through their nostrils, as though they have diminished their own capacity to behold any sensory input.  At that point, the only one they shall ever be on the threshold of, they become your master.

You are then utterly at their mercy, because you shall never reach a point of release as they return their torment upon you, because you shall never find a release from the ever increasingly unbearable torment as they bring you down into the pits of the hell you learned to think of as hell as your mind becomes something else which even this new place runs in horror yet in absolute attraction to.  At that point, you become the master of hell, and the former tormentor becomes the first one to ring the banshee cry of rebellion upon you, even though they are your master, for at the lowest place of humanity, there is yet another deep, thigh blood yearning for deeper mysterious precipices.

So the question is, who shall begin and who shall end the game of torments and its search for divine ascendance to citizenship or to freedom
for there are men and women both great and small —

for she is small, angelic, beautiful 
and he is huge, demonic, hideous
yet death, these
is but an illusion
whose sorcery
is gender

whose eyeball
is flesh

and flesh is fear
or so the grave yard twitters

deeply into the night
of each daytime’s

tick tock

but the deep, deep sea hatches new plans



for the rubble of states is man