I. The Funeral
Take the rosemary
they have pressed between my toes
and use it to garnish
your next glass of wine.
As you drink
make a toast,
not to merriment,
but to lamentation–
to the remembrance
of thy maiden’s death.
Cheers! to the unity
of our most unwavering
disgrace.
Cheers to what
has been broken.
In a fit of maddening remorse–
for this time the madness shall be tangible–
tear away the silk
lining of this
****** funeral bed
like you did tear
away the curtain and what
hid behind it.
Tear it away!
Tear it away like you did
tear the rat,
like you did tear and discard
the honour that did lie
between thy maiden’s legs,
like the river’s rapids
did tear away thy maiden’s life.
And once you have
sheathed your sword–
I entreat you–
kneel and bow your head
in surrender to the lilies
that lie before my grave;
you will caress their stems
and kiss their petals
in the hopes that
your love–the love
you did deny me–
will breathe life back
into these water-logged lungs.
But just as it is certain
that the flowers,
in their cyclical phases
of nature,
must bloom,
it is also certain that the dead
must remain dead.
For there is nothing so definite
as the blooming
just as there is nothing so definite
as the dying.
–Post Madness
II. The Drowning
My gown billows around
me like the slick
ripple of a mermaid’s fin.
I can hear the Lady Siren’s Song
and all of its guarantees:
liberation of this life’s
betrayals and heartbreaks,
liberation procured
by the certainty of death.
I **** the nectar of her voice,
drinking in every crescendo–
every last staccato–
of what the water has
promised me.
I **** the nectar of her voice
as I had so foolishly
suckt at the honey of his
music vows,
the same way
his own babe would
have suckt the milk
from the swell of my breast–
my babe to be
that shall never be
drowned by my sodden womb,
my babe whose mother–
certain in what proved to be
the uncertainty
of her lord’s love–
conceived him
in a bed of sin,
a bed of dishonour.
So now, my sweet child,
I do not object
to the deluge that
threatens to drag us
beneath the current,
for perhaps
this is the only way
to put the dishonour
to rest.
So float with me,
my sweet nymph,
and let us both dissolve
into spirits of the river.
–The Pinnacle of Madness
III. The Heartbreak
I, A maid at your window,
mouth glittering in anticipation
for your sweet, valentined kiss.
To the celestial and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia…
And so up you rose
to unlatch the chamber door–
to meet the nestle of
soft, petaled lips.
Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doublet unbraced,
you undressed
and to this, My Lord, I
so willingly followed.
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Corset loosened and
gown discarded
with you, I did lie.
Doubt truth be a liar,
So certain I was of your love,
that sin no longer daunted me.
But never doubt I love.
And certainly I was proven wrong,
for in the escapade of our passion
we did touch so dishonourably.
–Pre-Madness (The Inciting Incident)