Thursday, February 13, 2014

The Conqueror Wyrm

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drink the blood of the conqueror wyrm,
mingled crimson and alabaster.
draw it out and take nourishment
that you may be granted your truest wish.

drink the blood of the conqueror wyrm,
warm and fresh on your tongue, and
you will comprehend the dusky night,
speaking the language of fiends and angels.

drink the blood of the conqueror wyrm,
turning lovely quicksilver into radiant gold.
the alchemy of the soul, a single draught.
you will perceive the most arcane secrets.

drink the blood of the conqueror wyrm,
made a communion of madness, no chalice
can hold this thick venom, you must drain
the very beast in a feast of unleashed desire.



William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

cleave

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short of my soul, which God holds,
I am yours.
if you would have me: human and bent,
sent to Hell and back on more than one trip for water for the burnt.
still with a few trips left
and a desire to inspire one more heart to feel something
honest and beautiful.
to make children,
whether of paper and ink and light
or flesh and blood.
to be for you all you ask of me,
want me to be,
need me to be.
that I can be.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

Friday, August 23, 2013

preying mantissa

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how many times can nine go into one
such that there is no remainder
but sweaty sheets and deep breaths
hearts pounding in sounding out
the memory of equations
where I found several solutions
to the problem of where to enter
the sum of our parts
and, with hearts pounding,
found three deep answers
to a riddle we will recalculate
once we have untangled enough
to see if there is yet another result
we have yet to find, lost in our calculations.
as you impale yourself again,
hungry for more answers to questions
we will keep resolving to the last
decimal place, and again.  and again.
just to be sure of our proofs.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

Thursday, April 04, 2013

Hephaestus to Aphrodite

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You are beautiful.
I, deformed.
A god, no doubt, but not one
that they burn fragrant oils
to gather the favour of.
I am unworthy of you,
unworthy of your love.
It burns within me, this passion,
and yet it burns before me
that for all bonds and bindings
you will never really love me.
Just the idea of me.
The lame god, in the forge of souls,
hammering shape to metals
I have drawn out of lifeless stone.

You are beautiful.
I, deformed.
Cyrano suffered thus, and ultimately
it cost him the woman he loved,
who would have loved him back,
I suspect (ask Apollo, he would know).
But he was man and she, woman,
we burn at a higher degree,
our passions set fire to the skies
and people run and scream and dream
that their hearts could survive such heat.
But they are not that sturdy.
You seek balance in my malformations.
You laugh and smile and feign passions
beyond the novelty of my hideous countenance.

You are beautiful.
I, deformed.
For all your beautiful words and soft touches,
I know what and who I am. I know the smell
of burning sulphur under my nails and know
that my kisses are that of a brute, a thing.
Not a god, which is what you deserve.
I am twisted and I know my place.
Those things which I craft, that is what is sought
by those who follow the twisting labyrinth
into the hot bowels of the Earth to find me.
Lovely ornaments of silver and alloys I alone
can make and master, for I am Hephaestus.
But that does not make me beautiful.
That does not make me worthy of a goddess.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

Wednesday, April 03, 2013

blaspheme

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cold carotids leak little or nothing,
our pulses fading to blue
then grey
and we are so involved in our deaths
even the forgotten joi
tastes wet

set upon our paths by others' evils
we make cat's cradles of webs
left back
so that we can tell ourselves the lies
we take as our sustenance
and prey


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

Venice Beach, revisited

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The empty basketball court.
Not fifty feet from the pot barkers
calling out "we got medical weed"
and asking if you'd like to come in
for an assured and predestinate diagnosis.
Venice Beach is a different planet.
But the exobiology of stoned vendors
and tentative rollerbladers
doesn't change much.
The sand still feels the same
and the seabirds hop closer
as if to challenge you
to an arm wrestling match
for the last bite of the last pretzel
the world will ever see
if the homeless guy
with his apocalyptic cardboard
sandwich sign, smeared with cheese
and ancient ketchup stains
proves to be right.
And the pot barker keeps selling
the modern snake oil
to the kids and the tourists.
While I watch the Leyden jar
in a string bikini
flash by on foot-borne wings
no less synthetic
than her breasts.
But her teeth are perfect.
And there's the approaching thunder
of someone dribbling a basketball.


William F. DeVault

Monday, April 01, 2013

49 degrees in LA

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Four twenty five in the morning.
Santa Monica boulevard
looks like the rapture hit last night
and all the painted saints went to heaven.
The pavement wet and dark
like the scar tissue of my soul
that you don't seem to really mind.
You should be here.  You belong here
with the fading Gypsies and seven foot trannies.
Construction blocks my ramp to the 405
but I can always count on Lincoln
to snake me south to the airport
my rental car silent with radio off
because the music of my city is all I need to hear.
You should be here.  You belong here
with the Promenade cellist and the vampire boys
who walk Ventura, never knowing I can see them.
I am their king, scouting a return from exile.
Forty nine degrees in LA.
Boiling point for transfiguration.
Got to get the alchemists lined up.
Got to get the alchemists lined up.
I'm coming home, even if alone.
I'm coming home.


William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

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    Explaining the Tags

    You will note, gentle reader, that all works under this blog now display "tags" to help classify and assign the works for your review and enjoyment.

    These largely fall into 4 categories:

    Year of writing, e.g. "1999"
    Book published in, e.g. "from an unexpected quarter"
    Inspiring muse, e.g. "Aubergine"
    Genre, e.g. "erotica"

    We are still in the process of cleaning up the tags, so please bear with us. Yes, some muses are classified under more than one tag, some poems appear in more than one book, or not yet in any volume, and some years are...hazy.
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