Hephaestus to Aphrodite

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.

blaspheme

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.

Venice Beach, revisited

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

49 degrees in LA

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.

final sunday

I am cast out.
orphaned.
left for dead by the side of a wide road
so that others can swerve
to miss my fading form.
nothing warm
comes from this.
another legacy of ashes
left on my tongue
the taste of dung
and vinegar
from an apple orchard
I had once considered
a sanctuary.

the colding feat.
I am incomplete
and competing for sustenance
is not in my nature.
I will drag myself
into the dark
that I may not offend
those for whom
pain
is too intimate.
and I will find
myself.  unbroken
once I fit
all the pieces.

drinking stagnation.
the hunger unabated.
but I will bind my wounds.
plant fists to earth and roar.
sore in a thousand places.
it is good you do not
have to see me like this,
the tattered, battered man,
the orphan of Aphrodite.
but I will not change
my coat of arms.
I will still be a priest to your divinity.
and I will love you
every time I feel my hollow soul.

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

en exil

Dans ma solitude, la nuit douce
sensation de froid et amer
comme le vin chaud gaspillé.
Un goût simple refusé
comme la pierre précieuse ne voit pas la lumière
et la beauté est perdue.
En exil, en contemplant
les ventres froids
et des promesses creuses.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

barefoot in the snow

I dreamt of you
walking barefoot in the snow
a sign of purity and faith
solidarity and sacrifice.
it was beautiful.
not as beautiful as you
but it told me things
I could not see with open eyes.
your footprints
endured in the cold night
when I needed a symbol.
even one as simple
as footprints in the snow.


William F. Devault.  all rights reserved.