O Shaitan

O whet me not for appetite, after the Sun's setting;

Stray, fiery angels of cold desert,

whose dwellings old, discarded bones

washed wildly, dead with sin...

Proffer from buried secret cellar of the graves, ope

the Silence's door

Ghoul, feast me. O, make the precious bone-vessel plenty,

of glistening, putrid rain, their ablution.

though the sounds of their fall awayed long ago.

Whatever had sated thee there in that cellar;

drunken amid black follies in regress?

squeezed Creation and its vainglorious bounties,

thou wouldst taste in gone-flower's sorrow-cups of yore---a dainty fantasy?

once legends of oases were true.

thou delivered me only a polished bone-cup,

disinterred..

stolen from the dreamless night-soil, O

a precious cup of dirty rain, with only so much

to bury the cavern in the pores of skeleton under the skin.

the cavern there---Lightless, neither salvatory vines to bind,

nor set were the vaulted darkness of body with divine love's mercy,

yet the black smouldering moss overarch all the porous inner copes,

drooping or letting roll, downwards fuming often a fiery star to fill the little worlds..

extinguished in a formless desert of rain,

beneath, the dark water of ichor spit by the buried behemoth's decay,

so it was in flooded floor's oblivion

so receive the black pools and puddles of bitumen oil the wrath of perishing heat,

unignited though for the fume had poisoned the fire's might,

O desolation of desolation.

for inside the dead man's abyss there is endless exile for sparks of life,

upon the dark waters flowing, without firmament called earth,

stirred still the vital to polish the cavern's bed floor---

inside the skeletal bones of Man.

polishing a rocky mirror, to fetch afar whose signum beyond the desert smoke

(sad, for mirroring down here, only life's impotency in death)?

with an enclosed canopy that is the corrupted sod our flesh to become?

for the affraitage we managed had trained not doves, when we still float.

O to wait for the dark waters to recede, for fiery sky to die.

We wait, for the eternity to perish, for love to forswear love's wants.

we bred ravens or vultures in winter for the immortal dead,

broken goshawk or peregrines in summer for the mortal living.

and chased after cuckoos in autumn, for dreamless poets and shiftless prophets of Man,

in limbo-----that could not stir, delirious, lying down on the pools and puddles of their ichor of bitumen.

gazing upwards... daily the horizon were smote by the fall of yet another fiery star's doom;

below the canopy of our skin lies the fuming abyss of powerless Angry Man.

O from that province, his all-powerless infinite dominion stolen,

hast brought me the cup carved of bones that hold

such sacred liquor of putrid fire-rain inside that cavern. Shaitan.

the secret of the grave; that how many creations' sparks might rain

down the vast ocean refusing, even as exerted creator's Will;

the sea of petroleum ignites not, the dead walk not,

upon the land nor ocean.

for the poisonous fumes had blocked its conflagration...

and the passage is without even as a petty flame's light

but the life-ending breathing of Man would come to its cessation.

one day in eventuality.

Yet to-day I rise; I still am not the fiery carrion-eater angels of desert.

And I am created once again from the desert within the dark pores of my bones.

Ah, but sometimes when I see to the eastern horizon, I dream of

the burning, roseate sky.