MAUDLIN MAWS▪︎Poetry (3)

50. Reckoning of the saint who didn't wanna be

In a citadel churning up the skies on a plain
Chicory buds slant lithe and beryl
While brine alays their sepals...
Ahead way ahead on the liquid jade reflecting Helen's face
skirting its moonshine radiance; its flaxen cordon,
Down the sodden crater mointed pelts of corals, starfish,
and the stout oars jetting the ambit with the hand of convert Man; his gorspels_

I stand betrayed_
A forsaken ilk from this place
Shunned for digging my nails into that etched fresco, that raised box of devout sanctity
Her eyes downward-stiff and dormant with the dead's glossed flaccidity
Inviting my neck to break to shame
My blesses thwart in my mildewy throat
Decrying the chasm they've made of me
The pulp of purity mizzling my hairline
with a leaden chest to bin off my unrest in
But I do not sink nor do I let my fires skitter to feed her chimney

Sable were those prints they embossed with red chalk in between my body parts
...for an invariable perpetuity now;
Infancy's snug pelage at first,
Girlhood's clear-eyed elfin a second,
And a third on the gasping womanhood that I kept kindled with the deodar logs
of my shell-pink fleshed limbs_
Feeding my marrow to my bones_
Not a time giving way to the orange-yellow flame that sought my life elsewhere;
Elsewhere without a gourd to have a shadow
To be reminder for the upcoming seafaring vixens of the century
To be pledge to the sworn lies they plait into the thick drapes they swaddle your fears in,
The gravy they full the spoons of your babies with

Brazen of a woman betrayed I am
Robbed of the dogs I wanted to let loose in that noosed court
The psalms upon my execution ceremony they keep chanting
Cries skyward in stomping belts of lark
Rocking me within hell's 9th circle of treachery
(Can you spot the irony ?)
Crow-plugged lids and viper shackles;
I am just the blood of my mother running through my seams,
my father's revulsion rope guiding me by the nape
To lay in the final crest
An exiled child of the cradle

As Helios beats down day from his sputtering laurel
An eating white-light girds me,
Feading on my innards;
There water leaks through me in breaking flood curtains
Full of rage and unforgiving
Filling my festering blood vessels
Colapsing from between my legs,
Digging from within my cursed womb's tendrils
Palms dirty flat on their holy soils
The fumes of vapor gore draping the dawdling nebulas on dawn's eyebags

I rise bare like a plundered temple_
Pots of wine, jasmin rice, left infant-girls to nib on,
(Think that I changed into a full-formed man upon my death...HA !)
and gold-leafed crosses of the favored son
Groveling for forgiveness at the mercy of my argent heels,
at the feet of my rousing hanging beam;
I answer to no call of pardon_
But the solemn trailing promise,
Of getting my reckoning on that citadel_
Who sanctified me upon seeing my chin refuting god's beard                                                                                                   

12/7/2023