Saturday, June 19, 2021

Driving With The Incubus





Driving With The Incubus
(Incubus VIX) 
When I first saw you, neither man
nor woman, flesh nor fowl,
you'd brought round the car; a wisp
of sulfur fog hung from the grill.
It snaked up your shoe to your 
black and white smile
neither corrupt nor immaculate,
misting my face like tomorrow's shadow.
You held the sedan door wide;
I might have walked away but I was young,
and you were the best chauffeur
the devil could find, with
that changeling's face, the hellpit's flare,
black peacock eyes and velvet hands
for the gears. You put them
over my fog-wet lashes;
 through the holes
in your skin I saw pinpoint stars
as you smoothed the rucked sheets
of my cheek to finger 
the bed of skull so soon to be yours.
It was a black car without a brake
made to run the asphalt years

when the heart 
was a cindered highway,
each crossroads a Celtic knot
the devil my driver
til we stood at journey's end,
neither man nor woman
nor flesh most foul,
incorruptible corruption
tipping at the edge of the wailing abyss
where all I can see
are waning stars,
sulfur skin steaming fog, your

sharp teeth scarlet through
a feral smile.

June 2021

Posted for Fireblossom, at

Process Note: I've written many poems for the incubus over the years. He's always changing his face. You can find them by searching the blog or by clicking on the label "incubus" below.
Images: top via the Sunday Muse Fair Use
Bottom Untitled, © Zdislaw Beksinksi  Fair Use

Saturday, June 12, 2021



I am the witch of dying things
of things that cling
to a life that's passed,
custodian of the broken-wing
who shakes in the bush
and tries to sing.

I soothe the stings
of the white-nosed pup,
his few days left like clay that clings
to the potter's hands when the pot is thrown,
wagging his tail, eyes growing dim
unsure on his feet, afraid of alone.

I was the watcher 
as life leaked away, you
winding off slow as a traveling snake
loose in the snow, slipping into the maw,
dead at first frost like a turnip top,
grey dust on a root both bitter and raw.

There's none left to be
my watcher, my witch, 
to soothe the sting 
when they see me there
remembering the sun, pretending to live,
old knots of love caught in winter's hair.
I am the witch of dying things
learning their ways
while midnight sings.

June 2021

Posted for 
Image via Sunday Muse, Fair Use