Help me stop consuming
that which won't fill the need
the binging and short-form content
Temu, sugar, greed
i can't wait for forgiveness
the kind one gives themselves
For consumption to be sunshine, partners, languages--
Literature, walks and
making things-- as a behavior
I want my voice and life back
to feel beautiful and strange
Not absent, hungry, listless
The way these days have been...

On some nights I crave
bland starches and grave-rich
dishes of smooth buttered plunder.

Atahualpa, Oh Atahualpa,
what remains of your people?
What remains of your tribute?
What remains of your bent knee
and strangled betrayal -
having given all
and taking only a book,
a word, a promise?

Bags of Incan bone go cheap these days.
Bags of Incan bone fight for breath
among the well-heeled fad-diet set
and soft sweet rotting onions.

Boiled, roasted or shunned -
massacre lives on the skin,
brown and dusty.
Plunder grows from the eyes.
And the flesh weeps the milked tear
of the Andes.

For a witch’s mercury shall burn in the night of day

November’s Dark Moon and mists paused
fearful of the coming rosicler
The season of witch’s silver spun unto the night
A solitary witch’s laugh tormented the quivering stars above
With each step she dressed in silver sacrament
to his death── to life on this night

The moors echoed of timed rituals of ole
dancing and coveted by white moon satin
as though snow suffered upon a long forgotten desert face
existing blowing through her in another worlds wind
Shadows that once slept in pools of night
now whispered dark velvet promises,
tantalising her marauding lips

~ The Witch’s Silver Sabbath had begun~

The eleventh window pane glinted dew to frost white
in passing her watchful eye as moon silver mist slithered
through ominous black and grey clouds
Samhain drums vibrated upon the barren moors
as veneficium brewed thoughts enchanted nocent
wishes turning her chanting fingers to fire smoked obsidian

~Her eyes turned mercury blue through mirrors of time

A ravens nocturnal flute pulsed the eleventh beat
Ravenous fecundity blistered her mind
Liquid blood and silver anointing dreams from afar,
caressing her arms as vermillion dusts drift
winding her alabaster ankles
Sensually, slowly awakening deaths lustful shudders

Coptic clans of ole worlds whispered ‘Anoka ng ou kem’e nefer’
I am black and beautiful Khem on this nights breath
Ra’s ole demand shimmered like silver
a jewelled athame in her hand his mortal life, penance
Elegant Catafalgques laid to his Mastaba
Cast from Sun to burn as King to appoint all to Amenti

The eleventh window pane cracked as she burned white
her athame turned eleven times to eleven drops of blood
On a bed of fire black roses he rose within her circle
Her chalice of amber solanum’s to brim
bathing her body in rose ****** sensual arms
His sweet violet blackness tasted of Acheron
One with the Kings temple of night on the edge of the moor
Enigmatic creatures together

──Between worlds to rule forever

© ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens) 11/2017

they're ripe when dark black          
pick eighty days from transplant
Solanum Scabrum

an Africa native
is great when lightly sweetened
Solanum Scabrum