"lamia" poems
Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.
Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.
Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.
No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.
Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.
Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
turning into decades
of challenges.
But we shall revive our hope
and raise our voices
tomorrow.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
What sort of divination is this?
Immediately paralyzed by a feathery kiss.
The magnetism between us was always so strong,
But now I'm tortured awaiting you to arrive erelong.
You cast your wand, chant triple syllable spell
You filled my void, something you'd always done well
Now something has changed
This is far more intense
I find that I have lost every single defense
Tender Wizard, Loving Warlock, I am begging thee
Do not ever set me free.
Whatever potion, illusion, or spell this is
I am forever in need of you, my Adonis
For withdrawal seems fatal on both ends
The future now on you depends
For I do not want to leave my trance
This allurement was never a happenstance
Forever I see you with love veiled eyes
Vulnerable to even the slightest demise.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC
The screech-owl in the wasted tree,
Who blights the branch and smites the leaves,
She wails that she was once like you and me!
Hey Lamia, hey love of mine,
Whose banshee moaning boils the night,
I won’t listen, for I know that Lilith lies!
Oh, naked beasts, oh variegated lives!
Whose ribs You cracked,
Whose love You lacked,
For whom You cast two wives!
Oh, hungry man, that bites his keeper’s hand!
You mixed his tears,
Instilled his fears,
And taught him “Lilith lies.”
I fled before you were brought forth
And spread, you race of sons of ******
Oh children, you are mine, and I am yours!
Un-furred, un-feathered, and dull-toothed,
How the Almighty forsook you!
So sick and weak, you all can barely move!
Oh, teeth and bones, Oh heaven-wide applause!
Come Oneiroi,
Support ‘tcha boi,
The ape without no claws!
Oh, sticks and stones, oh desperation’s knives!
Come Seraphim,
Sing us a hymn,
Remind us Lilith lies!
“She lies, she lies,” you cry “she lies,”
But I have wings, and claws, and eyes
That pierce the dark, and to all schemes I’m wise!
Yes, I obtained these claws of gold
That keep me safe and fed and whole!
You can’t condemn what hasn’t got a soul!
Oh, life from mud, oh mare who bucked the stud!
Who sits on beds,
Perched at the heads
To drink the dreaming’s blood!
Oh, owl’s eyes, oh man’s dread realized!
Come talk at length,
And show your strength,
And show us how you lie!
Jan 30, 2020
Jan 30, 2020 at 3:06 PM UTC
Aphrodite, Xochiquetzal, Vénus, Ishtar, Astarté !
Oxum, Inanna, Erzulie Freda
Mes muses en Kâlî polycéphale réunies,
Venez vous ébattre et débattre avec moi !
Et vêtez le masque des savantes hétaïres,
Des nagaravadhu, des femmes matadore
Des tayu, des ahuianime, des harots
Et autres courtisanes de lumière,
Rhétoriciennes scandaleuses d'antan,
Pour m'initier à l'Intime quintessence
Des mystères de vos fils Kama, Eros, Cupidon.
J'ai choisi pour vous, les Immortelles,
La tenue mortelle des Métèques :
Entre Shamhat, la Joyeuse sumérienne
Amrapali , Vasantasena,
Basaui, Kulika, les tantriques
Shinano, Sakura et Bunsui
Diotime, prêtresse Mantinéote
Aspasie, la belle Milésienne,
Omphale, la Lydienne qui domina Hercule,
Lasthénéia, Nicarété, les grandes maquerelles,
Phryné, de son vrai nom Mnésarétè, la demoiselle,
La pudibonde muse de Praxitèle,
Puis encore Thargélia, qui devint reine
Impéria qui vécut en beauté pendant vingt-six ans et douze jours
Veronica, Lamia, Nééra,
Laïs qui vous dédia son miroir,
Toutes érudites catins de haute volée,
Porte-paroles d'Eros,
Indomptables et puissantes concubines
D'amour et d'intelligence,
Je ne peux décider
Avec qui convoler au Banquet des Sophistes ?
Certaines m'enflamment la chair
D'autres l'esprit et l 'âme
Et pour toutes cependant sans exception
Je bande d'égale vigueur.
"Amour, ont assuré ces maîtresses
Au disciple fervent que je suis,
N 'est ni divin ni humain
Ni beau ni laid
Ni bon ni méchant
Amour est un démon, un sorcier
Un magicien, un entremetteur...
Si j 'en crois ces rhétoriciennes,
Honorer l 'Amour
C'est désirer le Beau, assouvir
L 'impérissable désir d'immortalité.
On aime car on engendre
On aime car on féconde
On aime car on se reproduit
Pour les siècles des siècles.
Et c'est Ilithyie qui nous accouche
et nous délivre de la mortalité par la conception et l'enfantement.
Le Beau est éternel
Ce n'est pas un Beau physique
Mais métaphysique
Qu 'il nous faut reproduire
Par des joutes sensuelles
Pour tendre vers l 'immortalité.
Fécondez-moi donc et en honorant la courtisane,
La Métèque, qui vibre sous chacun de vos masques
J 'honore l 'Amour à travers vous,
Mes Etrangères,
Peu importe si mon amour est socratique,
Aristotélicien, platonique ou épicurien
Pour peu que j 'accouche de mes pensées lubriques.
Et si je meurs en couches
Qu'on me célèbre à travers tous vos panthéons
Comme le plus valeureux des guerriers !
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
❁
the skylark summons the dead to rise as you watch with cloudy, wishful eyes
our sisterhood survives throughout the dark
they will never silence our voices
when we call to the tune, the world rejoices
wild child, living in a fantasy
wild child, the myth lives on within you
wild child, you create your own dreams
wild child, enchant them
do what you do
the white cat knocks over the lamp with a smile
a sea of tears flows from your eyes as deep as the Nile
a mirage is in sight, a vision it seems
the fabric of your sadness is ripped at the seams
we weave a spell together, fashioned stitch by stitch
you look to me and laugh, mischievous like a witch
our sisterhood still lives on through the dark as we wait for the time to leave our mark
they will never silence our voice
when the world calls our tune we will rejoice
fuera puera, vivens in autem fantasia
fuera puera, quod fabula vitae on intra vos
furea puera, vos creo tuus agnosco somniums
fuera puera
lamia
facio qualis vos facio
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
I don't like computers .
You must be specific to get them
to work with you.
I prefer people,
the vaguest smile, the subtlest compliment
can make them fall in love with you.
Manipulation is an art
when done very well, like I do,
disastrous when seen. A risky business.
Those boys don't love me,
this computer doesn't know me,
but they obey me.
I suppose I am a sort of God
I could control their fate
on a temporary basis,
some kind of Satan.
Lamia
or a Pope.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Tonight, I feel lucky like I got Lamia at my side
Twilight will see justice and wrath meet
From virulence who could truly hide?
Tonight I ride in under the rain,
like under thin skin pushing blade
Anguish within replete in collecting like a memory
In time fully bleeding and reaping
A time limit on sun and moonlight
Tonight I ride in delivery
of thousands
hurting
for pain in payment
My mother was not right since the longest I recall
with the sickness to which you bound her, enthralled
For the daughters and the sons and for guardians who once
enjoyed their unity, who well beside themselves with grief
won't ever pray for harm
Tonight I ride lucky, Lamia,
as I collide
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
*
*Her heart burns with ache
Swept away by grief's mad tide
Cursed to know no rest*
*
Aug 28, 2020
Aug 28, 2020 at 5:39 AM UTC
In a sort of way I was like her pen.
Whenever she needed a place to vent I was there.
In the times when truth was hard to bare. The world a bit colder.
Is when she stained me with her hands. A place she felt most comfortable.
She'd wake out of a dead sleep, to tell me all of her dreams.
The things that kept her up at night. Her fears, her aspirations.
She inspired me as well.
To give as much as I could.
Knowing her to be all I could depend.
Generous in the way I laid beneath her words.
I remained humble. Replacing my top with every syllable she spoke.
learning to speak in the times she didn't know which word felt best.
Shutting the world out for moments longer.
In times I wasn't my best. She never minded the ink on her hands.
The moments that became hesitant. Large blotches of ink clogged in a moment of weakness.
The silence of a moment where silence spoke volume.
Closed pen top. The inadequacy of being used until nothing was left.
This was how I viewed the world until she opened me up.
Often times I'd dangle from her front pocket. Kept warm by her side.
Away from all the other things she'd carry in her bag.
In all honesty I loved every story she'd tell.
Shedding light on her perspective of life.
To leave the old me somewhere on a desk
I felt at home living and breathing, nestled between her fingers.
At neither time did we feel we'd run out of ink.
Scribbling her pain, her pleasure
With my fingers.
And I, curled up in a blanket until the sun rose in her eyes
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC