The Marriage of Samhain and Pomona (Old Poem)

A piece from this time last year. Little Halloween history poem for y’all…

 

The Marriage of Samhain and Pomona

 

I stumbled through all that fall foliage

To perform my duty as the last druid

And wed them before the full moon.

 

Ceremony aside, I aimed to find

A vampyre or witch to lie with

And send up magick sparks

Next to all those escaping bonfires.

 

Goal in mind, I was rather taken back

When asked to proceed to the bedding

And assist in some manner personal.

 

Samhain, brute he be

Wrapped me in his crimson arms

And asked this favor of me,

Bed Pomona in place of he.

 

She was too foreign a taste

A bitter little drink,

not what he wanted in a wife.

 

For her part, Samhain told me

This was her idea,

She did not want his stains on her robe

Nor the wild in her.

 

Thrice I declined, and thrice

They pushed and pulled,

Groping hands moving in waves

 

The moans of our lovemaking

Sent the beasts into a frenzy,

Such divinations I’ve never seen

As when Samhain forced Pomona on me.

 

They stuck an apple in my mouth

And a spit through my back,

Let a fire take the mattress

 

What a feast, at the midnight wedding

What beasts, my vampyre and witch

What release, this consumption of my flesh

What an end to the last druid priest.

Reveries (Fresh Poem)

Do you remember that summer

On the coast

When we walked on grey pebbles

And you didn’t ever wear shoes

Preferring to develop calluses and wounds

And leak blood into the Pacific

 

Do you remember that summer we spent

Washing whale bones

And you tried to teach me

Arabic phrases?

I know your secret now

All those stolen tongues

 

We stood in place                                                      We ran into each wave

Watching the sunrise                                               and I held you under

Watching the sunset                                                 The current for too long

And when it vanished we                                        cause I never learned to say no

Dug up the shoreline                                                 and you called it refreshing,

To see what it left behind                                        offered to do the same for me

 

Do you remember how the car

Choked and coughed

When we forced it up that hill

The one with overgrown firs

And all the turnouts

To catch a glimpse of bathing deities

 

Do you remember that look on your father’s face

When I brought you home late

Smelling of beer and raspberry stains

In your hair, our only excuse

Was that we were both Leos

 

Do you remember that summer

We stood in place

Smelling of beer and raspberry stained

And you didn’t wear shoes

And made me say things like

Ana Bahebak Ya Amar

Cause I never learned to say no.

Entry #22

Officers Parker and Bishop shuffled down the steep scree field, sending smaller rocks racing out under their heavy feet to the bottom of the coulee. They had parked behind the ambulance, which itself had been parked behind the fire chief’s rig, which was further parked behind the logging truck that had first stopped and called in the crash. The guardrail was severely mangled, like a great beast had come along and shredded its rusty contours with razor-sharp claws. It was that time of day where the sun had just begun its travels off to other parts of the world, and the mountains and trees were casting jagged shadows that danced as the emergency service lights all spun around at different speeds. The bottom of the ravine was home to numerous small shrubs and a creek that gurgled by gaily with little to no regard to the horrendous addition the mangled truck had made.

 

Both deputies had heard over the radio who exactly it was that had been ejected from the driver’s seat. Both couldn’t help but think it was related to the Nice case, yet both were determined to not let the paperwork from this incident join that growing pile of shit.

 

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If Hemingway Wrote My Life

The Teacher watched the bubbles race each other to the surface of his drink. It was a bastard drink, 7-Up and Knob Creek Whiskey on ice. It was the yellow of an ale and had almost no bite. He could have sworn he put in several fingers of the whiskey, but the soda held all the bite at bay. It was good and sweet in the late afternoon. It made his mind at ease at first swig.

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The Last Poem I Ever Wrote

I’m slurping down my ghouls with whiskey shots

Suppress and deny

 

Suppress and deny.

 

I finally found out what is wrong with me

My face isn’t symmetrical,

 

My face isn’t symmetrical

So how dare you expect me to contribute

To society.

 

The left eye is lazy,

The crows feet are different heights,

There are already crows feet,

One eye is sadder than the other,

The hair doesn’t line up,

There are already crows feet,

One eyebrow is intense

And it ain’t the right one,

Or the right one,

The left eye is lazy,

My face isn’t symmetrical.

 

How can you expect me to contribute

To society?

 

All the friends keep saying,

“It’ll be good.”

But I never was a friend with smart folk.

This will have to be the last poem I ever wrote

Until I drink whiskey again.

 

 

 

Even then,

My face isn’t symmetrical

And these ghouls keep sharpening my teeth

On their way down.

Entry #20

From: Academypublishinghouse@*****.com

To: thepeachykings@gmail.com

Subject: Progress?

Body:

Hey AT & RH,

Loving the copies we have seen so far. You two have a real knack for filling in the blanks of what happened in those bumpkin towns. Two reasons I’m contacting you today, and frankly, it’s not all peachy. (see what I did there?) The first item, sales from the last book are down. This was to be expected going into this quarter but still thought you two should know. I guess people are done hearing about the incident in Phoenix, with the final finding being inconclusive and all. There is a palpable energy here in the office though; we are really excited about this Deercliff work. Which leads to my second reason for emailing. WTF is up with the delays? That sheriff got her memoir out within months of the events up there, and she is on fucking Ellen. We don’t know how much longer we can cover your expenses without seeing some tangible results from our investment. Need to see the next entry of the work sooner rather than later. If you two are burnt out or something, then just say so, but we need to have something ready to publish in the next few months (even if it’s unfinished) to keep up our contract with you.

Sorry for the pressure, like I said, we really like what you have sent our way. just really really need you guys to wrap up your work in Deercliff and come on home.

Good Luck,

Amelia.

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Dear Alt-Right, More Pizzagates Please

Dear Alt-Right, More Pizzagates Please

 

If you are a fan of my work, you already know of my predisposition for conspiracy theories of all flavors. If you aren’t a fan of my work but are reading this, I love conspiracy theories. Something about the visceral need to escape reality, the desire to separate from the accepted, It’s in the base desire of all fiction writers. Our brains augment reality all the time to find ideas, and in conspiracy theorists, we find a similar ilk. A fraternal twin. Similarity shouldn’t be seen as acceptance, however. I’m more a fan than a researcher, an artist looking for a muse. Do I like conspiracy theories and read about them and dive deep into the bowels of YouTube for them? Yes. Do I believe them? Not really.

 

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