"actaeon" poems
Out of the dark forest I stumbled
onto the pebbles of a moonlit lake
my languid eyes bumbled
swallowing down philter mistakes
a pale goddess in the flesh
how my stupefied eyes stared
at the beauty of her nakedness
something in me flared
flared and turned and burned
my flesh no longer mine
stag in form standing taciturn
she calls out for my canines
I run and try to yell
nothing escapes my lungs
pattering of legs hungry to quell
come to rip flesh with teeth and tongues
stumbling and tripping over
stones, limbs, roots and mud
left to a new life a stag rover
I hear the ******* and the studs
faster and faster I try to move
from this typhoon wave of carnivorous hounds
but curse these feeble hooves
the claws and teeth came crashing around
flesh stabbed with a thousand teeth
a pack of mouths tear and pull
a stag corpse I bequeath
to the hunger of my own wolves
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 2:07 PM UTC
Love, unruliest hope, when fierce Diana went wild
With savage discourse, the arrow-stroke of her tongue—
While rage-hounds bay in wooded Gargaphie—aimed at Actaeon.
Or old Baucis her god-giving bone fat of mind,
Stewed the broth of covenant for Zeus to repay in kind.
Then Parthenope, siren-stung in her whirlpool of sea vines,
Her maiden-voice is a breath of sand for Naples to muse upon.
The body of Helen still lies in ages-old smoke over our cities,
We live in the timberframe of her bones of burned ships.
Why can’t her death be an end to all skies?
Oct 8, 2021
Oct 8, 2021 at 8:22 PM UTC
Bet I’m in the belly of the Beast
With this enemy ofMe
Do I fight or flight or Freeze?
Cause either way
this mother *******
coming straight At me
I was only a dark forest away
From where I needed to be
I never metaphor for anxiety
Like this one
*** Imposter syndrome
Mara’s army fires arrows
Of self-deprication
And self-doubt
And i hit the ground running exhausted
Hot and heavy heaving
To the four-on-the-floor
At the heart of the war…
She was doing yoga in the distance
And as she rose to mountain pose
I let my mind slip back into the prose
Where I fetishized her
Like some sacred ******* object
Caught in the act like Actaeon
Watching The Huntress bathing
Basilisk staring me down
Like Artemis cloaked
In her wild fury
And as she rose to mountain pose...
She held a crescent blade
To the throat of the horizon
Locking her eyes in
As she stood over Gaia’s mouth
Spinning up **** Magick
Earth the power back from the word
She channels power back from the void
From womb to tomb
To womb of the tomb
She creates
She destroys
Her body, Her weapon
Her own ******* choice
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 8:05 PM UTC
Oh, sweet Dianne, Huntress,
How ****** steps do bless
These very woods through which you give your chase.
Wearied now, so wish to lave
In your spring off the way.
To there she did repair, her holy place.
Actaeon, hunter too,
Left his friends, oft did do,
To run with his dogs, his skill was unmatched.
The same it was that day,
With his friends back a way
The beginnings of Actaeon's doom hatched.
So it was that noble
Actaeon did stumble
Upon fair Dianne attended within
Guarded by handmaidens
But her face un-hidden
The sight of which, Actaeon's final sin.
"Go and tell, if you can,
That you have seen Dianne
Unapparelled!" she added as water,
So potently bless-ed,
In his face was dash-ed.
Actaeon a stag, form she did alter.
"Ah! So wretched is me!"
No escape did he see
As the great hunter became the hunted.
And his dogs now gave chase
Knowing not his new face,
Run, Actaeon! Your life yet stunted!
The chase gave for three days,
Greatest, worthy of praise,
Till Actaeon's poor heart did finally
Break, now unto his fall
To the dogs he did call.
Actaeon's death, as a stag he did see.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC