Maggie Wells

Bright Blight

Welcome to the Ballroom! Step in and emerge! Diseased or cured!

                                                  -- The Divine Host of the Universe

 

 

I close my eyes

 

when politicians speak

 

because there is logic

 

in darkness.

 

 

Sometimes men gather

 

in important rooms

and talk about violence

 

against women

because they own it.

 

 

 

 

 

Purity is power

 

the men at church explain

 

with panting dicks.

Take that sick feeling

and vomit

on no one

and everyone

 

wandering

with bottomless sacks.

 

 

 

 

 

This ecosystem 

is the ecosystem

 

you can’t escape

 

You wander like Aribel,

through the points on a compass;

a serpent with a woman’s head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silence falls even

 

amongst the terrified

 

mother birds.

The neon Aspen leaves blink: No Vacancy.

 

No forest

 

is large enough

to accommodate the sickness

 

of humankind.

 

Listen closely,

the bears sound so cute while shunning us.

 

 

 

 

At this moment

 

 

there may be

a king and queen

devouring your home

 

 

the workers

the soldiers

all of them blind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the floor falls

 

beneath your dimension

 

it will be replaced

 

by reaching hands.

They fall away too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hunter’s moon

 

is a bright infection

telling you to want things

you could never want.

Stop looking at me.

Water swallows up the Earth

 

and with the stretching forth of clouds

 

takes the heavens

 

as its own.

I will hold your head

 

in the river

 

should you seek God.

 

 

 

 

 

If the day is divided into fifteen equal parts

 

I will come to you on the sixth

 

to observe

 

the devils

you call your familiars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Give me your devils;

 

I like to carry them

 

around bound

and enclosed

in rings     boxes             little vials.

 

 

 

 

 

Milk and honey,

 

black rooster blood,

 

the swell of cicadas on audio cassette.

Make an offering

                                  now

it’s already too late.

 

 

 

 

A goat of many eyes stands

 

with two hooves

 

on a thick hunk of wood.

In the center of the slab is a chalice

 

aching for his blood.

 

We’re all having such a nice time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the night of the missing moon

 

we learn the spirits of darkness

 

are stronger in the dark.

 

To drive them away, lights and fires should be kindled

 

by the corpses

 

of the dead.

Take my matches; I’m sick of all this,

I say.

Buried in the streets of none

 

Are my embarrassments.

 

I walk away from them,

 

get nowhere.

Shame just keeps strangling me,

 

I say quietly into the microphone

 

of your mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I need the waves to stop pushing heaven

 

when I’m busy carving my grave.

 

Stop filling these holes,

I say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My recreation center

 

is a dark pool of water.

 

Petrified bones breathe at the bottom.

 

 

I was once amphibian,

 

I whisper.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paint the void

 

to recreate the world.

Paint the black last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Focus on the emptiness

 

surrounding poppies.

 

The negative space between

 

droplets of light and liquid.

 

You are each of these things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am afraid of running into myself

 

high up in these mountains.

I am not sure where I am

but these cliffs look familiar

and I can be very frightening

in my silence.