Tuesday, July 6, 2010

The Winter King Selection 6

The swine stopped side by side with the
slave sleepwalking, both before the cave’s
black funnel, and poured white powder in
his nose. The sleeping man did nothing
as diamond dust was drained down his throat;
the sleeper merely continued speaking from
behind his silent “X.”

They then separated, the pig-man
pacing his way and the sleepwalker
pacing like a child, lame .

The ice of my skin displayed
a languid blue glow and the
pig-man grunted, turning
my direction. An inkling itched
inside me, screaming, “He knows
of your presence!”

And with the second, hoarse grunt
of that bulbous swine, I prompted
myself and confronted them, the
guardsmen of a discomforting station.

My heart leapt in bounds as
I approached the pig who’s
tusks were besmirched with
a yellowed brown, and the
sleepwalking man who’s
incessant speech was the
voice of his words lacking

The pig man’s hands were dirty:
grout rolled off swollen, tight skin;
thick flesh mounds on his knuckles
were dry like cracked leather; his nails
were broken and housed multicolored
dense fungus beneath each jagged ridge;
warts sprouted like cauliflower—I imagined
the swine was the host of much disease.

“Who are you?” I uttered, the boar’s twin
black beads narrowing, and he lift his hands—
those foul, plagued palms—and puffed white
sand in my face. A fine white powder tickled
my nose and stuck in my throat.
I hacked, coughing as my mind left me,
floating above my head. It drifted above
the sand, lifting above the gray landscape
of counter-colored stones and eased into
the plum blue hue that saturated the
heavens high above ground.

Then down it came racing with stealth
to the ice vase that held it, speeding to the
frozen domain that housed it, fleeing to
the winter body that owned it, and as my
mind settled, my vision blurred.

A kaleidoscope spun before me,
a tunnel vision barely seeing the light,
the frosted window broke to a distorted,
white haze, shard upon shard made up
a fractured maze.

Behind the gauze I beheld writhing
maggots, a sea of worming motion,
a great crowd, a multitude of people
gathered in a pool of naked flesh.

The Swine of Babylon laughed,
seated above the breeding sea;
he sat contently as I fell into the
exposed frenzy.

Suffocation rose like humidity,
causing sweat to fall like rain.
Their husky breathing like
orchestrated drums and saws
thundered in my head.

“Away!” I shouted, but the current
held strong. “Be away!” I sputtered
as salty fingers wriggled in my mouth.

In this delirium, in this intoxicated septic
of lust where pleasure bled itself like a
flagellant, the synchronic breathing
moaned like pain.

--Michael Aaron Casares is the editor of Carcinogenic Poetry and owns/operates Virgogray Press, an indie press working out of Austin, TX that specializes in poetry chapbooks and anthologies. His work has appeared in several recent online and print publications. He has authored four collections of poetry with Virgogray, New Polish Beat and Shadow Archer Press. Michael also paints; his work can be seen at the Calcasieu Gallery and other venues in San Antonio, TX.

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