Been inspired to actually draw pictures lately, not well, but a rare thing for me, something of a mental release from writing. Tonight, however, I wanted to draw something with words. The verbal description of a character’s features turned into a meditation. I guess this is my Beorn in a way, one of the many specimens in my own personal Cabinet of Curiosities that exhibits holy monstrosity. And, in its way, it’s yet another Love Poem. It’s only a sketch, but you may peek at it. Just don’t try to feed it or in any way get your fingers too close. The amount of well-meaning digits that have been lost this way, I tell you…
“I’LL HAVE YOU THREE WAYS FROM SUNDAY!”
(A Reporter’s Courtroom Sketch of the Sacred Outlaw Threatening Judges and Jury)
Gonna do battle witcha…
gonna grow black corded arms of lithe steel with which to hug you close
and coddle you irrevocably into a deep, deep sleep of undreaming
gonna gut and gore ya with a huge pair of sweeping beetle horns
shiny jagged elegance curving and cragging from my ample temples
gonna stand my ground with two green-barked tree trunks for legs
root-grip inextricable from the dirt unless I say so, say ‘Go and Stomp!’
gonna heave great breaths of stamina from a translucent crystal torso
unpierced by your thousand wicked blades shattered on its rippling facets, ah!
I WILL DO BATTLE WITCHA!
Gonna throw death atcha…
I am the Peace Corpse, dead to flies buzzing about eternal burning enmity
shot through am I, ripped liberally but unstoppable in grip and chomp
my bright viscera spill and spill and haunt your every waking nightmare
my cold dead fingers pry up every board you nail up against my entry
your doors and windows are ever open to me no matter how you bar them
I am shambling horror, I am lurching terror, the horde on your horizon rising
wet bones show through and muscles too and gristle-tendons bending up
and down around your own hot and thriving vitals so inviting to my hunger, ugh!
I WILL THROW DEATH ATCHA!
Gonna suck the soul outcha…
gonna slither and suckle into your head space a space to curl and coil it
into my own coruscating osculations, vicious little kisses from the Other Side
burn your brain with unheard susurrations rasping the underside of your scalp
driven up falling walls in dimensions unmentioned by decent folk up above it all
gonna tunnel in all phosphorous and bristle-backed, bed down deep in the folds
of your mind and never ever leave or let lie or give quarter to your retch-recoil
This is the end of the line for you for all crawlspaces belong to my touch and lick
and my reach is unimpeachable, you cannot slip me and no lip outstrips my maw, aw!
I WILL SUCK THE SOUL OUTCHA!
(photo © Flannery O’Kafka)