I lay my head down
in the boneyard of relatives
to feed Aunt Bea’s chickens.
Over in the corner
in the shade of Grandpa’s old pear tree
my mother lays among buzzing yellow jackets
feasting upon apples scattered in decay.
Momma pushes away all of her children,
those of us still alive;
screams for us to grow up;
demands we stop listening to the news;
shouts we better hunt us up
some animals for breakfast.
Desperately she lifts tattered, dirty burlap,
shoves small bones ragged with chunks of meat
into her vagina as she mourns and grieves
the deaths of three babies
from dirty, unwashed hands.
I glance up and see Aunt Bea peeking down
thru broken shutter slats guarding old attic windows.
She won’t come down;
expects us to visit her instead.
We do not dare, of course.
Aunt Bea is hungry beyond pain,
yet she avoids the bone yard where
her sister screeches
in the shade of serpent grief.
She pushes notes at us
from under her door,
notes so raw her letters leave us
wet with terror.
Aunt Bea’s eye sees me as it always does,
quivers with relief as it watches my head twitch.
Her one enormous eye, wild, heavy, swivels “Yes!”
I stand up headless and walk away
as chickens cluck and peck at my face.
My old twin head Wilson, severed across the throat,
rolls in staggered jerks beneath
swarming hens, roosters, and slaps of Momma’s shoe.
I’d once saved Wilson’s life from drowning.
My twin washed up on Absinthe Beach north of Yurka
five years after vanishing off Nikumaroro.
I return to the shed to cook down
p-ephedrine with hydroiodic acid,
red phosphorous, iodine, and lye.
Daddy slouches naked in the shadows
among broken antique furniture once
slathered in now faded yellow, green,
red, purple Dutch Boy lead paint.
As I deliberately position glass jars, bottles,
eyedroppers and brown paper coffee filters,
Daddy gnaws and gnaws and gnaws and GNAWS
upon old lead paint furniture
as chickens pluck my cheeks apart
enough to distinguish maxilla from zygomatic arch.
Daddy moans and whimpers
and smiles as he sees me cooking dinner.
His mouth widens the crack across his face
where rows of melted candlesticks the color of honey
guard a speech as strangled as the Grinch
Who Stole All The Hearts Down In Whoville.
Daddy squats under a table,
rubs his heart in circles as he weeps.
His tongue finds bone to push against
just enough to speak.
“Where’s my Wilson?”
I nod left toward the boneyard
with my other head.
Daddy smiles like Halloween
and rubs his heart in circles.
His hands with nails as long as Howard Hughes’s
go round and round and round
tracing crop circles between two nipples.
Momma’s cries back at Aunt Bea’s cyclops eye
watching her snatch bones from relatives
laid out among the chickens while
two 1,000-milliliter glass flasks each fill
slowly with 150 grams of ephedrine hydrochloride.
Daddy chomps down on the back of a broken
yellow lead paint chair with little baby yelps
and watches me add 40 grams of red phosphorous.
My focus is so deliberate I now see the
hydroiodic acid set down atop a bench too far.
I glance up into a large vintage mirror
stained with muriatic acid
and see moving flesh crawling
across old bones held together
with fascia spun as if by spiders.
Once upon another time
in flashbacks from a different life,
Carlos Marlow Jesús Korzeniowski
chased Gaspar Nyanga up the river
into jungles of Eden and
found the long lost and forgotten Heart of Light.
I remembered the terror in three heartbeats,
long ago Matosa from Angola worked
with Yanga from Gabon deep in the Spanish Empire’s
Mexican Veracruz to liberate Africans and Indians
from the cannibalism of Archons disguised as Souls
seeking yet more flesh
to incarnate into and possess.
With glass of hydroiodic acid in hand
I push away all thoughts of jaw munching blowjobs
and sweet musky hot cunnilingus
as I torque elements apart with banality.
No Cherubim with flaming swords
Guard the Gates of Outer Space
where I tease apart Hell
to find the Devil’s Heart
and wrench it free from writhing ribs
of barbed angled angels
and pulsing sacks of seething magma jinn.
Covert from Demiurge Ahriman,
I continue centuries old alchemy
in search of forbidden love
so deeply buried and so long forgotten
no one remembers mission, purpose, and vision.
Not even Gods so Old they sleep without genitals.
Hungry Chthonic Saturn scythes the Heavens free of Life,
as I turn back beneath the cobwebs
and the gibbering of my father
to focus upon tasks bereft of purpose.
Slowly I begin to squeeze the black, rubber bulb
of my glass eye dropper to drip captured souls
into row after row of glass vials soon stoppered.
Tired, I stand back to behold the menagerie
of many billions of souls harvested across worlds
abandoned by angels.
William Dudley Bass
16-17 September 2013
Copyright © 2013, 2015, 2016 by William Dudley Bass. All Rights Reserved until we Humans establish Wise Stewardship of and for our Earth and Solarian Commons. Thank you.