Paul StJohn Mackintosh

Writing * Poetry * Dark Fiction * Weird * Fantastic * Horror * Fantasy * Science Fiction * Literature

New poem



Mysterium, the ox and ass
and other faux-naif beliefs
in emblematic bas-reliefs
beside Annas and Caiaphas

show forth in a medieval frieze:
the midnight walk to Christmas Mass,
the stars and moon all frosted glass,
grass blades and abbey carp ponds freeze.

Parades of ensigns and cornets
of horse trail regimental flags,
the troop of drooping colours flags
to brassy flourish of cornets;

blind crusades across endless steppes
pitch camp; the sacrificial host
receives the sacrificial Host,
hostage to Fortune’s crass missteps.

The thick-lipped bewitched monarchy,
inbred true bloodlines’ royal sports,
trip dimly through their royal sports,
idiot spawn of purity.

What unheimlich manoeuvre could
void us before we choke to death,
gavaged with every shibboleth,
the forcemeat offal of our blood;

ineffables we effing parse
in polysemous homonyms
cured by Gulliver’s Houyhnhnms
with doses from a Yahoo’s arse.

No onomatopoeia sounds
the same, a tongue on its home ground
can’t even reproduce a sound,
the token effort Babel grounds.

God’s soundscape that we cannot bate
returns no answer known to us;
deep in the clouds of Perseus,
the black hole’s grace notes resonate.


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