Goat Man.

An rud a scríobhann an púca, léann sé fhéin é Poetry with teeth

[diabhal-sceal]

The bruja and the beat

Let it be known I was made a monster

Now you disguised yourself well, it’s true

I saw the scorn-filled storm’s wind

sully your too-tiny teeth

just beyond my doorstep

Ay bruja, I saw her wrestle your torn hair too

But that was the beginning only

You  fooled me— what did you want? 

I remember you told me about the singer, a man woven by a feminine script—  him?

with me you dwelt only upon the mechanics of masculinity; piston, pincher, chassis and socket

softness has no place in our recipe; we warpened Beautitudes

into draughts, into potions

Small dosage, metered out, a weaning

Vale bruja, you cook well

You boil your liquid memories by mixing the sweet with the bitter 

and so i took from you and did eat of it; 

so the monster came, unplanned fetus, rancor and dirty teeth

Yes, I saw my own soul turn into a being I have never met; 

A shrill and broken demon dragging the voice of memory along behind him;

A wandering shadow torn from its heels, scorched by lovely light;

A blind, one-eyed colossus groping feebly for wife among cavern shadows made of wool and twine; 

The bad man;

The Swan upon Leda—

Ay bruja, you were craftier than me, always

I want you to know I no longer wake up like that

with my whole soul in my mouth 

I scattered my beauty on wooden floors, I 

washed my fingers of poet’s blood, I 

mistook lotus for rose for nobody but I awoke, sneezing my seven times

and in the end we became myth;

Me drunk, and you insane 

[diabhal-sceal]

Another parable

it’s unsurprising how easy it is for a man to remember scripture when he’s bent on his hands & knees

more difficult to imagine your voice— was it deep? Was it clear? Was it good? I can’t remember it on my own

so here i kneel

shuffling past every corner in my house

searching for memories to kill

you

left nothing behind but a braid from your hair— oh, here it is, behind the bed, torn out while I sank into you sometime last year

“Ah, yes yes” I appraise the strand as if it could be precious, as if it were a murder victim, as if it had a voice of its own,

as if it were a coin so valuable that I could buy souls with it, or months, or futures or summers

i wait and listen, but there’s no other echo of you here—

so now I cradle such a delicate shard as if it could speak, tell me, remind me, what am I looking for?

[diabhal-sceal]

Prayer

Pray for the man I’m supposed to be

Diamond eyed, bright canines

Too big for his mouth—

Yet he smiles, all he knows

That man could mount the stars

That man would build a steamboat in a meadow

just to decorate his boasts

Oh he’ll never get caught— the leprechaun don, Fortuna’s ward

I saw him across a sky-blue lake that shines like a Carbuncle in the solid earth

This was the Dreamtime, prehistory

When changeling boys slip between animal skins like raincoats, and time and hurt are only childlike words

formless blurs, the beast-boys

My lover is Diamond eyed, bright canines

he don’t sleep until he’s full of stars and stories, and even then, never alone

Pray for the man I’m supposed to be

And pray for the dryads turned to willow and maple

For the panpipes are so sweet through the trees, and

ambrosia beckons the mouth from his banquet

beneath the boughs— oh, won’t you stay awhile?

The murky night flees him

For fear of the stars he set in the northern sky to light the dinner table

And there is room there, oh yes

oh yes there is room

[diabhal-sceal]

Elegy for friend and enemy (sketches)

You cook rice and steak for me like you’re out for vengeance

like you have someone to care for

Dad guides your hand across the stove

You cook like him

He passes you parsley and you shake it over my food

There are angels in here

While I sit and uncap my beer—

a response you’ll always understand

[serotinals]

[diabhal-sceal]

Moon, this is the most beautiful poem oh yes

[diabhal-sceal]

The Idea (Untitled)

A life’s theme should be inarticulate

But always measured by a knowers hand

Like surgery performed on a cat

Every man should speak silver words with

a rusty tongue

The way opulence is measured only by the depth of what it buried

And Time’s knowing hands will dote on a man

who can do these things

So sometimes I speak with the accent of a hundred years

C’est la poésie. Inconnue, jamais dépêchée

It was different back then, but now it’s the same—

The word for cat in Cheyenne is poésó, did you know? So similar

In this way, you can exchange a tongue for a voice, I’ve been told

In the end my poetry does curve, writhe

below this delicate knife

- - -

Time will write his recipes on our skin

You will trust he knows the words

[diabhal-sceal]

A Toast / Sláinte

Gabriel’s music plays in my mind

Do you hear it? Éistfeá leis?

Can you forge a concoction for me, one of those drinks

You know the one, the rhododendron garnish

The hops of lavender— all your invention, your bitter draught and

Tonight even God himself would be thirsty for it

So let it be on the table for me, long after the doors are locked against the snow

You’ve made it for me so

many times but now—

But now I’ll taste it

Will this dream dissolve in my mouth?

Can I breathe it in, or rub it onto my skin?

Oh, we’ve left the table now—

I’ve somewhere to go

But when the music stops and the snow falls on the living and

the dead

Will it be enough?

[diabhal-sceal]

@pinkmoonpoetry you’re truly evil yet the tag game begins

How do I enjoy my books? Hmmm

historical or futuristic

Historical. I like biopics too. “What if” is such a cool question to ask about the past opposed to the future

the opening or closing chapter

Closing. Poignancy gets my heart

light + fluffy or dark + gritty

I like it dark baby. Of course, I have a brand to maintain

animal companion or found family

Found family. Animals can bore me

horror or romance

Hard choice, but I think I have to go with romance. Love and sex are just a part of life and I read more stuff with that than horror. But both are good

standalone or series

Stand-alone for the art, series for the ride

one project at a time or always juggling 2+

I’m always juggling yeah

one award winner or one bestseller

The Goat’s seal of approval is all I care about

fantasy or sci-fi

Heard it said once that fantasy is the art of making the impossible seem probable, whereas sci-fi is the business of making the probable seem impossible. Two sides of the same coin. I partake in fantasy more, but both are needed

character or setting description

Characters interest me the most. I am one, after all

first or final draft

How is this a question? Who prefers the first draft?

literary or “commercial” genre

Both are great, honestly. I partake in more commercial, but it’s art that drives my interest for it.

love triangle in everything or no romantic arcs

Idk about a love triangle in everything, but I need some romance of some kind. It’s interesting

constant sandstorm or rainstorm

I was born and raised in New England, so of course I choose my comforting rainstorms

- - -

I can’t tag anyone else besides my dear @anjo-emporium for I wish to know the angel’s thoughts, and the ever-suffering @maya-doolali (if she’s alive)

[diabhal-sceal]

Riposte

Hard men are harder to come by

But how could you all know?

I’m the fallen son of heaven, ashen holiness

Leapt— not fell; caught just in time

If the world is wrong, am I to be blamed?

Like an innocent man sneaking nicotine into his prison cell

(a place most want me)

but no—

I’m the fallen son of heaven, ashen holiness

I could catch the sun and bear it away

I am David & I am Saul I

am Romulus & Remus I

am Allfather & branch I

am both fruit & lips

- - -

[mermaidenmystic]

Fauno che suona il flauto a una ninfa (Faun playing a flute to a nymph) by Georg Jahn (German artist, 1869-1941)

[diabhal-sceal]

Who dat man

[diabhal-sceal]

Boston Took our Picture

A man named Boston took our picture next to Rocky

I ran up those steps as your baby died

Philly calls you home, just like you call it home

Isn’t that right?

Please don’t take it personal

God knows, all our deaths look like stars from far away

They are beautiful in their way

We reach the top, the sky’s hair touches our shoulders

“Don’t take her away from me”

I say to myself, you say to yourself

One girl told me she loved me, and two boys, then another girl

It’s the pattern you watch, like little cars down the creaky street, like the stars above us

[diabhal-sceal]

Slán / Goodbye

If I said goodbye to you

Oh Valley that saw my childhood 

With your people and your lands, look;

Don’t be heartbroken

Isn’t it clear that it too would be hard on me to forsake you?

Even if I wished— when I am now so overwhelmed—

To return to you again?

— “Slán” by Máire mac an tSaoi, translated from the Irish by @diabhal-sceal

- - -

Rest In Peace / / ar dheis Dé go raibh d’anam

[frofc]

“Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.”

— Aristotle

[anjo-emporium]

I must be both

[diabhal-sceal]

My upper body is fuckin beast, my lower body godlike. You know what that means. I will forever be alone for I am a freak, albeit a sexy one

[smakkabagms]

I have lost something, a leaf or bird ghost, something brief and winged with wind - it is too far now, to remember so begins the endless, mortal circling I flit the cypress trees, they brood black and root deep like a heap of losses they have held me so long but even this must end, like any other holding even here I do not belong

[diabhal-sceal]

And one day the shoeshine man asked me “How many specters would there be If all of us were dead and we were planted with the trees?” I said nothing. My shoes were clean, my face was clean

But I saw them in a dream that night— such a forest of souls! Some burning, some thriving, some leafless, all drowning How funny we all look, bald, planted in a worldswamp With no birds to sing in our ears

Ghosts are as mute as the Cyprus tree And who would dare climb such a buttress?

[diabhal-sceal]

Fireflies

(A short story)

How can I even capture that night with words? The strife between us, the hopelessness of our home, the shit we had seen… and yet I raced wordless back to your house to pick you up and bring you to that scene of fireflies, those thousands of them, twinkling out in their ocean through the grass and trees— not like stars or UFO’s or city lights, but something more, and something less. Something intangible and yearning, eternal, cold and placid, so oblivious to the carnage that our hearts held inside. No, not oblivious… they were indulgent to us. The world allowed us to see them, and I felt shame even to look.

We two were allowed to witness them, despite it all, and only us. I wanted to hide my face, so dirty standing next to you… And to call us admirers! It seems so small a word, so human. It’s a crime you know, a shame, how undeserving we were to see it.

Can you see them still?

I’ve never seen stars like I saw in that field on that night, and I wonder if I ever will again.

[diabhal-sceal]

Scheherazade

She tells me stories with their ends not right

I spare her life, if only one more night

[anjo-umbra-deactivated20200622]

Quadrature

When the doors open and night-inviting with her Green glitter eye-shadow seductive stare, Latches her, long enamel fake finger-nails Around his tie, tugging. Following along behind All the girls, They look so pretty,  under the half soft lights, Even the bulges not hidden, Bright they sparkle, With the glitz and the glamour. The two-way mirrors, the high floor to ceiling Windows, looking out over the harbor, He crawls on his hands and knees And blows hot air against the see-through pain. Stars and galaxies dance around the room, it’s after midnight And all the neighbors, with their clear cut lawns, Have turned off each light and set the security Fences, armed and machine gun ready, For the night unfolds her arms, seductively swaying Hips backwards and forwards, As he sings so loud to wake the sleeping dead, And like those two-way mirrors, all is not as it seems Even up this close to the glass.  

[diabhal-sceal]

Still beautiful Anjo