She stands before him clothed in garments of flaming fire, inspiring terror and making body and soul terrible, full of frightening eyes, in her hand a sword dripping bitter drops.
To milk. To think of Lilith, her nine laws,
as I ream your ring. Moon-cycle, moon-horns,
moon-kin. She loves pilgrims, slattern outlaws,
butt sluts. With lubed tongue, with cum that adorns
Heaven. Haven. Your ass spread wide like so.
“Pervy,” you lament. “You’ve made me a perv
with my bum.” The other secret grotto.
We name it, then we pray to it. Fat curve
of cock swallowed up, shaft consumed. Clenched tight,
you’ve milked with your bowels. A prayer for Her —
Mother of Outcasts, Lady of the Dune,
Vagabond’s Love — blessed be and Her queer light
in this excess, in your ass, the other
grotto — Eden: laid waste by a typhoon.
Ghosts rise and drink. Before the sulfuric heat
of the muggy gray sky (which never rains)
untwines itself from the dawn my heartbeat
murmurs and my hand shakes. Each new bloodstain
from the kitchen knife oozes down my arm
only to scab over. My body plays
host to a host of ills that plague and swarm
throughout me. I’m simply the obscene maze
that all things must flee from — Mama Lilith;
I’m shit-faced and you’re here with my meltdown.
Your twitch, my cut, all this must bleed. As host
to this chaos I’m your kith drunk on myth,
your kin sodden on gin — I won’t come down;
nothing comes down; not host-demon, not ghost.
“In this first testing ground of the atomic bomb I have seen the most terrible and frightening desolation in four years of war. It makes a blitzed Pacific island seem like an Eden. The damage is far greater than photographs can show.”
Coming home in Lilith’s arms must I mount
the sand storm and shamble on toward ancient
Djenne-Djenno; together our names count
very little. What you call pussy, cunt,
bitch, I call mother, niece, aunt. I won’t be
the one who burns your vile house down. You’ll do
that; you’ll raise your own hand, for my story
is of a goddess who said no and who
met a priest wearing authority, cast
out First Wife, First Lover. If you must know
me then enter me like proverbs, grace’s
skin. All those words of yours, like a bomb blast,
simply damns you. Call me a Skank. Tease. Ho.
I am proud to be the child of Bitches.
“The vastness of the desert frightened her. Everything looked too far away, even the cloudless sky. There was nowhere you could hide in such emptiness.” — James Carlos Blake
To talk of Her is to talk of Eden,
a new religion barely two thousand
years old. The girl chased footprints while the sun
made tracks in the caravan path glisten
leading to one more heat mirage and what
do they make of that in Djenne-Djenno
voices on the wind where no one sleeps but
the girl herself and what did the pharaoh
know of the wide divine that you yourself
did not save that there is no one great truth
that all paths lead to a dried up water
hole. When I count bleached bones I count myself.
You pray to an old man, I pray to youth,
to a girl, I pray to the First Lover.
“Once, my mother told a whole host of angels that she’d rather die than go back to a man she didn’t love.” ― Brenna Yovanoff
I is I, Lilith is Lilith. Mama
who came out of Babylon will save us.
Call it Djenne-Djenno. Call it Jeddah.
City of Souls. Mankind is still lawless,
despite Allah, Christ and Yahweh. Your laws
are what you ignore. Why not, then, condemn
such men? Eye for eye? Aiii, I won’t, because
war, rape and killing, that’s your gifts, they stem
from gods acting like men. If I follow
let me follow your mothers and your young.
I will march to your city’s gates, pound on
your doors, demand entrance. I do not know
what will happen next. Perhaps I’ll speak in tongue,
perhaps I will rise like the sun at dawn.
Jeddah and Djenne-Djenno are ancient cities, respectfully. Djenne-Djenno is considered to be among the oldest in sub-Saharan Africa, while Jeddah is located in western Saudi Arabia along the Red Sea coast. The ruins of Babylon are located in modern-day Iraq.
“Madness plants mirrors in the desert. I find their meaning frightening.” ― Floriano Martins
What could catch Lilith? A djinn’s brass bottle?
A song? A prayer? No one could catch Isis,
and she was twice as old. A human skull
is not constructed to house a goddess;
She is vast, like a sand storm, like a djinn.
Mother monster, sire, lady. I am Thirst.
I am Hunger. There isn’t enough sin
here to feed a soul. Sin, like a sun-burst,
is far beyond human control. Make me
arch. Make me dreadful. I’m nothing but loss.
But I believe. Hunger. Thirst. These answers
will not save my soul. I am vain and She
who I’ve caught in a bottle, like a cross,
like a book, will always hate her captors.
“I have always loved the desert. One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing. Yet through the silence something throbs and gleams …” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince.
Wake and watch dawn pour over the desert;
as it does everyday in the city
of Jeddah, in Babylon. She searched for
Lilith among the corpses the raiders
leave for the vultures for she has waited
lifetimes, another dawn, one more sunset,
for this. Out on the Sahara’s low lip
something entered her wrists, thin fingers stirred,
touching, just once, nails kissing each other.
All I tell you is a secret, a need
beyond word, beyond sound, silence, until
the silence releases something like prayer,
like song. She sat in the sand, drew circles
with her curved horn-blade. It is hard not to fall
in love with blades, with rage, with a war like blades.
It was a summoning from the silence,
from Lilith, the First Wife, the First Lover.
She threw down the curved-horn, turned to the south.
A Bedouin widow sat on a dune,
watching the girl watching the vast sand storm
approach, washing over everything; pulsing
with what the ancients called destruction of life.
Mother of a mixed multitude, seeking
Lilith but not her flesh nor the image
of her flesh not the bone nor the clicking
of tongue not the brain wearing its damage
as mask not the mind with its false color
and not this and not that I have followed
the dim tracks of the Bedouin mother
following the girl by moon and crossroad
following the sand storm. I love rough seas.
I love their power. I’m not smart enough
to get out of their way. I want the myth
of the desert to fall in love with me.
Consume me. I call upon the mischief,
the sand, all that they call Mother Lilith.
–venus of the sea
Heartbreak housed in the side, my Butch Venus
break, a chrysalis of horn and fog —Ball
of sea, of water, leaden —Buxomness
with the rod of Lilith. Den of shape —all
her whelps shot through the fin, wrenched by fishers
men, their bud and plague. The long voice. Water-
handed grave and rancid; drowners —rivers
of blood. Country of sea, boxed. My lover
rises. Fathoms. Cold cross the bar —Inhale
her dead seeds, jelly-fish egg, the green grave
and the dew of acid —My lover’s breath
drove her on —up —out —gasp now —now exhale.
Breath you’ve come. In waves you’ve come. Waves, death, wave.
Crave the grave’s breath —de la mer —in for death.