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

The Sunday Muse 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

Watching

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching

 

 

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 

The Sunday Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image via Sunday Muse, Fair Use