Song of Proserpine

I cannot stop the screaming my lover’s-corpse emits,
I cannot stop the singing from the gashes in my wrists.
I vomit blood over graves I pass –
Their inscriptions say “Dickinson”, “Poe”
Martyr to the torments I created,
Like Wells’ Doctor Moreau.

Now I run with wolves,
For the cheery hunt, the scent of blood –
Eyes are laughing like needles in the night.
I would have all the murder I could.

She helped me to sharpen the blade discreetly,
To pause at the belly and tip it in.
The blade seared through my belly,
The wound exclaimed deeply
And teased through the flesh
Like a lover’s ode.
To smile and caress with a telling soul
Rip up and down feeling the belly explode
Lift left and right without the kiss
So alarmingly felt in Hari Kari.

Now I roam with the spirits
From town’s graveyard to the moor.
Trembling in investiture.
I wheedle and wail in those horror hours,
I shriek with banshees,
I impinge with the ghosts,
Laid bare like stark nothingness.
I recount with the goblins
That time you left me in the dark
When I thought you would lead me to light.

She lay me tenderly on the table
And sliced down my neck and chest to my navel.
My intestines she lovingly placed in a jar;
As so my kidneys, pelvis, my liver,
In glass jars I feel my body parts given
And sit on a shelf above my empty corpse,
Though I never knew she would keep my heart
And leave the hole in my chest gaping like a lark,
Like a pit where only a fiend would dwell,
Whoose every tender feeling he would sell.

Now I live as the cursed,
Those without souls.
I weep and cringe in rancour
Lifted by the wings of the night,
A spirit without anchor.
Now I weep with Thrawn Janet
And she remembers flesh and organs,
I remember the leap of faith towards love,
Screaming with the fallen.

She told me clearly, softly of heaven –
A golden life in love’s dew,
A garden, a gate, a ship of sorts,
Like lifting the veil after the last resort.
She talked of visions through a lizard’s scale;
She talked of heaven when life did fail
And my mutilated body left on the surgeon’s table
Now dreams, golden dreams in my sanitized crypt.

I scream on the moor where my bonny E. left me.
I like to tell a tale of a million heroes.
I peek through the hollows
That see into the dark
Away from sunbeams wrought
And the tears that whet my despair
In a good dream, life is left as the only resort.

The sun, shone once, is now forgotten,
My claws curl like camp fire tales of the night,
A wretched cave, a hive, a burrow.
I am nothing but a coward in flight.
I shriek with the sirens on the poignant reef
And tell myself life is underneath,
Or roam with the bloody hounds over the heath.

A chocolate box with poison sweets,
The lover’s feint to touch my cheek.
The sun will not shine again today.
I take to the air with the skeleton lich.
I pour my dreams into the phantom Lethe.
The taste of the violent ale she brewed,
That drunk and disgusted I now abuse.

E. do not let me fall back in my grave
As a knave, underrated I will not save,
For the beetles will misuse me,
The maggots have their way
And left in eternal night I’ll shriek as I may.

She gave me arms, legs and torso,
Mask and maw but did not forgo
A life she left out,
Just a boy on a lead
To dance as a marionette with the Zombie Queen.

By Jacob Pilkington

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