De Rais, the Abhorrent Erotic

I see no strife beheading them with blade

Or rudiment’ry saw. Nor hanging them

Within my room by hooks and chains and straps

Until they kicked no more, succumbing help-

Less, breathless, lifeless to the crushing grip

Of strangulation. Words cannot begin

To speak my pleasure so profound to see

Them languish agonising, though lament

I do that weak they are I quickly fill

My cup with sweetest honey – no, it will

Not do, I must have more. To dine upon

Falsetto screams, to drink the wine their cries

Excrete does satisfy desire. So young

They are, so fresh and delicate – I hold

The hope each time that they will give to me

My chance and die and suffer not too fast.

An offering my servants give to me

To make their lord fulfilled, although upon

My order they perform. Bestow reward

Upon the kind and gentle creatures, yes,

For it ensures a ripened fruit. No rot

To spoil nor chafe the burning tongues with which

Desire laps my bliss. One purse of gold

For ev’ry blossom brought – one more when they

Delete the feeble mothers who will wail

Against my walls and do insist I show

Compassion. Mercy, mercy beg the whores,

“Remove them from my sight!” I call and sure

And quick and silent come my loyal dogs

Who bound with glee to quick escape the great

And caring bosom Dame Sedition keeps,

Wherein they nestle comf’tably until

My orders wake them from their sleep with loud

And booming summon.  

Torture right and just

Befits a crime yet uncommitted – though,

Confess I shall, repent I never can.

Regret is not a burden that I bear.

A murd’rous swine, devil come before

Humanity I hear, though they are wrong.

Among us is he not, though grinning waits

Forever with my soul behind my throne.

A pact unbreakable – to break it I

Wish not. A treaty made in blacken’d blood

Eternal – to curtail it I wish not.

In silence drawing rapture from the scene

As venom leaves a wound – injecting pain

Into my very force – I feel a tide

Erotic fill my guts. The infant’s death,

Supplied with grace by sweeping anguish’s squeeze,

Stirs potions for profound arousal which

Unslaked will snake about. The children lash

And hang and bleed and wail and whip and bleed

Which makes the serpent dance and sway and writhe

In begging search of striking. Wait, dear snake

And patience grants you pleasure. Wait until

They live no more, then strip and rape them! Give

Them equal offering, they were all so good

Enough that they subject to you their forms!

So take the tender gift and savour well

Sweet vampire. Faster and harder and surer your strike

Does fatally make the diff’rence. Tomorrow we dine

Again, o devil, my devil – we shall invest

In hurt! Another warm submission – blood

For blood, the snake shall strike the youth once more.

End.

Il Doge Di Venezia - I - Epilogue

Fatti i cazzi tuoi, ca campi cent'anni.

I – Epilogue

The entries here do classify with all

Official zeal what I encountered when

I journeyed from the grand and erudite  

Venetian-wide republic to the west

To stop in striking Paris. Travelled there

I did in company so ample vast –

Sebastiano Iaconelli, Lord

And Doge of Venice with a crowd of dear

Yet common friends.

            Within this work there are

No warnings nor critiques – but rather just

A written recognition of our trip.

You will hate what lies herein, and poor

I do encourage to indulge your mind

No more. Modesty you will not have

And I shall contribute no censorship.

So let it be. My prologue stands before

I hurl myself all spitting, cursing in

The face of God, though I shall guide you through

This Hell, your Virgil am I not. Choose

To listen, I will speak – but you will hate

What lies herein, and should you choose to step

With caution, blindly t’wards progression, shall

I call you mad; a fool so surely born.

No true prediction can be made, the tale

Will ravage you into submission. Let

Us see how long you stand against my work,

For you will hate what lies herein. Farewell. 

A Treastise On Everything, A Haiku

There's nothing quite like

Floccinaucinihili-

pilification.

End.

To Destroy The Darkling Night

In magic thick and sweet I step between

Deep fissures, rising crests of bounding light,

Impossible geometry unseen

By human soul before. Like waves, the sight

Of this does chill my core and warm my heart

In sickly ostentation. Such a flight

Of artifice divine! The quick’ning dart

That beauty snares and bids to soar along

Horizons flecked with gold does pierce the art

My mind will keep, to render it so strong

‘Gainst flashing, creeping evil. Shining jaws

Will resonate the righteous, dancing song

And carry me to comfort ‘mid applause –

Their grand cacophony does banish dark

And slith’ring shadow. So it shrieking draws.

I bid farewell to doom and praise the stark

Unquenchable: that morning thirst which slays

And cracks the day in twain, the godly arc

Proclaiming victory above all. Days

Make light of nights, though such is it that black

Is triumph’d! Kissing corners, bright’ning ways

That run and hide and veil their bitter track

Against the onslaught. Conquest! Conquest! Shout

Into the clouds with open throat, that back

The night does go! Success! Success! All doubt

And fear is vanquished. Sweetest sun I smile,

I weep, I grace your rescue – timely, stout,

Above all fearless. Facing such a vile

Ungrateful foe you scream upon the moon

To force your enemy to fall. Guile

Does overcome you not, nor tricks, which strewn

Before you shriek while day and night are hewn.

End.

La 121ème Journée de Sodome, In Hommage To The Marquis De Sade

Liberté ! After such corporeal

Affront, how I breathe sweet the sugared air

Deep into my very soul! That never

Should another human soul suffer the

Anguish I have felt! A torture beyond

Description - one which rend in twain my heart

And cleft it from my chest, still beating its

Defiance ever strongly! Be not so

Cruel to force upon me the memory

Ever more, be not so gracious to keep

Me imprisoned in that poisonous cell!

That you wept blood is of great comfort to

My conscience – that your scarlet tears have stained

Your work is a solace mentally carved

Into my very vision.

                Yet I do

Not imagine you befitting such an

Odious punishment as I have seen.

Run to my arms and cry for the glory

Of that you achieved. Never will such kind

And darkly wailing chastisement subject

Me to such everlasting suffering.

What beauty in its ugliness! What art

In its defiling of art! Be sad if

You must – but not that the world shall never

See your full-throated abhorrent off’ring

To magnificence, but instead cry joy!

The eternal creation you thrust from

Your mind into the light – the whole world can

Never deny you it. Smile and revel

In the sublime defecation you saw

Fit to grace such unworthiness as I.

End.

Sanctus, or If Homer Wasn't A Morning Person

O cruel light! Plague me not so with your stark

Intensity! Though glad I am the dark

Ghosts you chase away, be not pitiless

On my pain. That you do forever dress

My waking with unbridled beams and sights

Am I not ungrateful, a demon fights

With all ferocity within the strong,

Compacted confines of my mind, I long

For the embrace whence you brought me. Be great

In your great gift and release me yet late

From the bounteous endowments I lay

Peacefully among. Such visions were they!

Such delightful folly in their tender

Grasp! Vindictive! You interrupt! Render

Them once more unto me, I writhe and plea!

Your overwrought greeting takes what I see

With a swift and measured hand. I do shut

My eyes once more, that I might again put

The heavy curtain of sleep between might

And will - I want it not! Rob me of sight,

Whip from me that blanket of sweetest dreams

And I damn you to all Hell that vast teams

Of angels relinquish you to their sour

Instruments of torture! And though the hour

Is not late, I curse you and your disturbing power.

End.

The Sword Shall Call The Mountain

The sword shall call the mountain when the loud

Metallic thunder crash of hilt and proud

Blade on uncomforting stone echoes down

The narrow cobbled streets of the old town.

The sword shall call the mountain when some strife

So mortally awesome threatens the life

Of a noble, sturdy and ancient land –

A call to arms so fierce and great, the hand

Which invasion feeds will flinch and start back.

The steel of Sigismund the old will crack

Stone with dancing and melodious tune

And make rise the southern giant! Rock, hewn

And cleft and broken and scarred will divide

A forth the legendary knight shall ride!

Giewont, our sleeping saviour , forget not

Us who shout your name and paint it in hot

Colours across the whisp’ring mountainscape.

Wake and march and ride and march and reshape

The course of things. Catch the fast-falling sword,

Bring us the rescue our King foresaw, ward

Our fragile land and see it once again restored.

End.