Three Poems

by Arbogast

Gallows Feast

Come, carrion birds

and idle onlookers.

See ‘em swing,

see ‘em bounce in the breeze.

Do you dare to touch?

Do you dare to see

how long, from finger to knee,

runs red those kinky innards?

It’s a fine show, no?

It’s good to see Hell early.

It’s fine for the misaligned

to die.

Don’t cry—rejoice!

It was their choice,

after all,

to die like dogs.

All this is,

all this ever is,

is a rendezvous party—

one last hurrah

for the buzzards and the bees,

the maggots and worms,

and the catchers of the blood

wanting yet another feast.

September

I found your note:

your suicide note…

today.

The sun was shining,

and somehow summer held on,

but you didn’t.

You went with the blowflies

on the whore’s corpse:

a-festering.

You hid your blood well—

in the backyards

among the bushes.

No cul-de-sac creature

will ever find you.

But I know…

I know your last thoughts.

I know your last dreams.

Such nightmares on pavement,

and flecks of foam

on quivering lips.

This is how it goes in September.

So, go gather the ghosts

and ask for treats,

I’ll take your letter

and crawl

into my own

coffin.

Across the Battlements

Red knight, green knight.

A spinning black sun.

Crooked rays shine on

the many turrets of

the grand mausoleum.

Here, the snow has gathered

for the old ritual.

Which warrior will wince

when the severed necks

pump plumage instead of blood?

It is their duel which must dance;

It is their war which must end,

not in victory,

but in the continuation of the game.

Players shall play on—

ravished maidens shall be captured,

and their hearts wrung pale for

graal wine.

A toast then for the absurdity of it all.

For life lived exquisitely,

and for nothing at all.

This is the only thing to be done

each equinox.

When the world—the castle—

pretends to be enchanted.