Black Petals Issue #72 Summer, 2015

Poetry & Prose by Alexis Child

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Ocean Life-Fiction by Lael Braday
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The Weeping Man-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Poetry & Prose by Alexis Child
Poetry by John Frazee
Poetry by Denny Marshall
Poetry by Jeffrey Park
Poetry by Dr. Mel Waldman

alexischilddevilintheclock.jpg

Summer 2015 Poem and Prose-Poem Sets by Alexis Child, Featured

2014 (1, 2), 2015 (the rest) Alexis Child (all rites reserved until the worms crawl in...)

 

 

Dead Silence

 

Since you said

“Get a tougher skin!”

I no longer feel anything

Guaranteed pain killer

 

These skin clothes

Stitched and stretched

From head to toe

Lady’s flesh suit

 

Fits snug as a glove

Ed Gein-like

I beat my flesh drum

Howling in the moonlight

 

As newlydeads

We lay entwined

Spiraling in darkness

Your voice trapped inside

 

Where you can’t tear me apart

Holding your tongue

There are “thinks”

You cannot say

 

Diary of Death

 

In dimly lit fog-blanketed streets

A devil in disguise by shadow creeps

One fearful night

Surrounded by the social blight

The murderous monster strikes

Wielding surgical knives

 

Under the full moon’s frosty glow

His brutal blood lust grows

Another victim’s butchered like swine

Not just any old East End crime

One more lady of the night disappears

London is gripped with frenzied fear

 

Detectives puzzle over half-clues

Not to blame are the Jews

Unanswered questions

No murder weapons

Such outrageous speculations

A butcher from another nation

Taunting letters mock police

 

The murderous rampage ceased

No sinister confession uttered

Murderer's body undiscovered

Forever justice is starved

Chilling reminders carved

In White Chapel's heart of infamy

A diary of death incomplete

 

The Art of Losing

*Dedicated to Carl McCoy of The Fields of the Nephilim*

 

A vulturous dead breath

Black statement

Weeps for what’s wrong

The riddled corpse at the gate’s

Given up in the space to cross

A morgue between two cities

Veils annihilating days

Pernicious holocaust of love

Saint of impossible causes

Anima’s forsaken reason

Why is there silence?

The guillotine whispers

Let this death be complete

  

Witch Hammer

*Dedicated to Joan of Arc—Those who quit the body most violently are the most pure.*

 

Psychic demons conjure

Desires of contorted control

Sadistically despotic visions

Seeds of ignorance sown

Desire of innocents’ blood

Forges a mist of terrors

Wood to ash, flesh to bone

Witch hunters’ black plague

The devil’s own

 

 

Alexis Child’s Prose Poem Set for Summer 2015

 

 

 

Eyes of Asmodeus

 

Proud flesh foretells dread; children taught to sin,

quiet as shadows, without thought for their own

failings, manipulate skeletal angels in an unborn

universe until the speed is such, their wounds, when

at peace, fly into themselves, opening pages of their

death, long before its time. In hatred of itself, the

history of bones and blood rises up from its depths,

in the heart before birth, a secret death in these wounds.

 

Who can accuse those sustained by dark breath?

We cannot help those who were born to perish.

What happens to them is found in all cold places

on earth, even lonely cemeteries. Constructed from

raw petals, burnt and scarred, their ugliness stirs the

fire. By the light of a true hunger, that's not been

found, the genesis of evil owns one completely,

for the cadaver of a future life is driven onto spikes.

 

Crucified children leave behind all they want you to

remember, compelling your feet to go on, breaking

worlds in others’ heads, where existence is elsewhere.

 

In Extremis

 

Notions of evil bury us deep in views of clouds the same as you.

A hot rain of futility weeps for a week rehearsing the scarlet

wound. No one sees the fury marring flesh. I am lit from within,

perfumed with burning vapour. I beat my head distractedly

without resurrecting consolation. None prop us up in the furnace

of hell’s fairytale. The empire reaches black and repeats, warm as

blood. Tomorrow finds us grey as grief, stubbornly stealing rapture.

The earth inverts in my absence, wearing out the cold moon’s

obedient grimace, like tired eyes in the dark. Opposing madness

with sanity, armies stand resolute. Mysterious accomplices

everywhere join the siege; there is no coming to terms with Malice.

 

The white lips of stress stretch taut over skin, stirring pools of

drowned nerves, cool as grudges under the sea we long to leave.

A dreaming skull’s cage opens and closes—hello/goodbye—yearning

to dismember the past. The whispering clock will not abandon

this world beyond ours, the afterlife of a heart of black leaves

where we voyage now. The future chimes mechanic wishes left

unspoken, fluent on the wind. I am terrified by this unlit place, yet

accustomed to conjuring moods of irrevocable fate and dread

in bearing witness to the workings of human folly.

 

The naked girl in the mirror escapes the tarnished crucifix where

nothing burns. Bodies of saints serve only one master. These

candles of Canaan are accursed slaves, suckling whores of their god

of graves who feasts on strange delights. Madonna nails the exiles’

hands to bleeding feet lost for all eternity. We are wronged

by an ancient curse, proud and victorious, dissecting bodies

and breaking bones whose dull relics are the ghosts of us rattling on

the tongue. I breathe warrior songs in guilty joy, pursued by any

wounded and timid wings thirsty for my undoing. I promise to

forget the devil’s word we heard. This could be fatal: unequal

fights annihilate the decades it takes to feed each maniac. A

gullible head feeds them honey, yet they are too hungry for

anything but animosity. Their angry clambering has murdered my

heaven and freed them.

 

The end of everything startles me still, facing dark doorways of

Love’s gestures. The pale victim’s eye, empty of all thought,

unravels your image. You shrink small enough to make me forget

anything between us, unholy Terror. Can you do without me?

I could vanish in a day, my grieving gown of loneliness and sorrow

become a yearning for extinction. I am what is lacking in me,

sucking a vulnerable wound between crippled teeth. How long

will this heart wear shadows so sorely confounded by love?

God knows the origin of the unknown land where we’ll meet.

We depart to walk in wilderness, another way than death,

never taking a tedious risk, to lose what we shall not find,

bound by secrets we share and the end that betrays us here. 

 

The Bleeding Medusa 

 

Part I

 

On a mighty wind, in rides the Cavalry of Hell, raining angry

jackals, prophesying fallen dreams to come. Placing faith in

the cracked mirror behind a dying time, a cruel world daggered

by hatred lingers long after the last wounds.

 

Carving your rage with the slap of words, and knife dislocating

already unstable limbs, blood flows, transforming non-reality with

needle-sharp decisions. The hungry man born with a silver spoon

in his mouth claims the most important thing is his only sin.

 

In blind innocence, seeing that which never was, a place where 

devils dwell, a dead world welcomes a dark giant’s horrifying

entrance into this blighted age. At the start of the fight, that

Dark Mephisto’s lips curve into a hard line.


Chill and venom and slithers drown men with holy dread 

of the odious cave of snakes, of cold hard dead decomposition,

and shrink to shadow our former strength, the mystery of the Zen hex

that evokes death-wielding birds above our heads.

 

Bursting into laughter, Apollo leaves, replaced by the cold sweat

of something new and dangerous: the daunting cold of the

capricious north! The bipolar brinksmanship of cold war's battle

angel threatens at least conflict, if not total annihilation—

not the first of his kind to dazzle with such a grand performance.

 

The Gorgon Medusa is rendered inert by violent men, life-giving powers

broken and enslaved, mastered by the male order. Athena,

with twisted faith and hope in hand, watches meteors the entire night:

once honoured forces halted to conform to a linear perspective.

 

Witness the frightening sound of distant boars, words that do not

belong. Metis keeps vigilant watch until we return home

safely, following moonlit trails to another love song.

 

Part II

 

The last angry man on earth falls and is whisked away by the

Gorgon sisters. We hear him screaming as he drops, declines.

Weeping at the fountain, The Mistress of the Beasts pens

the bitter letter of love, mercy, and hope broken, rehashing

heartache in the agonized sermons of a defeated land.

 

Black heart nights resigned to human frailties wear the veil;

The hidden face, the mask of Hecate. Where to bury the dead and how?

Erect a stone pillar to honour lovers, that a sense of pity brought on

by brutality and contamination of faith may rust the warriors’ armour.

 

Battle scars trap souls in the dangerous throes of damnation.

In salvation’s sanctified mouth is the spear of truth and justice.

If the righteous do not prevail, who gets what is deserved?

 

The war chariot is drawn by ravenous lions as imagined foes are

conquered, dominated with vengeance, as a way to deflect the

wounding spear and save oneself from Solis’ eventual demise.

Luna lifts night’s veil, casting mortal illusions into the underworld.

 

Mephisto breaks the seal, staying in detention, imprisoned by

seeds of corruption ineffective against a Dark Faust. That which

was revealed no longer remains a mystery: Medusa, beheaded for

Athena’s sake, is a putrefying corpse-victim of the crescent sword, 

head gifted to Gorgon. Fear not, the gods will help Perseus find his way.

 

A third-degree sickness sees no picture that is human, never

letting go until the serpent monster slips off the edge of a mythical

caravan into a territory of death and life, the visible and invisible,

horror and beauty, hovering between being and not, a tense pairing.

In the evolution of life and this destruction, all that was shall never be.

 

Gaze upon my fiery vitality in the mirror with your shield.

Perceive these forces in reflection. Cast your Furies on the

silhouette of a final conquest. Not even Perseus in his cold steel

tomb can vanquish with his intellect the heart that turns to stone:

the greatest fear and attraction this powerful gaze has ever known.

 

Rendering final judgment, a golden-bladed giant is born from my

bleeding neck, from my deadly mouth, a skull. Serpentine wisdom

whispers in my ear, created in earth on the winged militant steed

of Zeus. Fear me, The Female Mysteries, The Lady of the Beast, who 

bleeds without wound or pain to end evil so that life may rise again.

 

The Punishing Ground

 

There is a little funeral in the shades of my hands.

I am blinded by the lives of the dead,

yet you say nothing of this black-spiked

madness, shaking me goodbye, no longer

calling my name. I breathe in invisibles,

blackened edges, until I see nobody in my

house. The death weapon smells fear in me

only you could excise; but, I live within boxes

I can’t escape even in sleep; I am a sacrificial seed

about to break forth into reverence in the quiet.

 

Sweet Devil, there are no windows to see.

Tongue of Hell, you know what lies are for.

Snuffed Candle, you wound me as the world

hurts God. The raw skull grieves it cannot be

holy, chilled to death with frozen faith before

the angry dawn. I unwind all the clocks of

hazardous dreams, annihilate the spider queen,

and watch as you disappear with devilish ease.

I break the image of you under my feet

where cracks appear: bats’ wings inscribed 

with secret hieroglyphics, exiled to an evil end.

 

War Hammer

 

Hydra-headed faces, I am afraid of your

innumerable tentacles, bad luck, and gypsy blood.

I know what I must do, a Herculean task, and hack

with the sword to kill you. One head lopped off,

two grow in its place; death only strengthens

your resolve. Banish the hydra-headed bitch!

 

Relapsing, I am cracking, bloodied by the vicious axes who

own me. Place the mad monster’s neck beneath a guillotine;

the final head must drop; its fierce emotion moves me not.

Hack the Hydra, master vampire and slayer, whose old

bones bury you in an unexpected grave. In the reeking soil

he’ll die beneath a rock, memories heavy as the stone.

 

Now frozen and faint, my face is my own, pierced by knives.

On a cold day that carries its dead, this mouth is trapped in a

cage of frantic butterflies, all wants and desires freed. Asking

nothing of life, anaesthetized, the still place is the black hearse

of Lethe. Buddha smiles at a dead bell, God’s swastika has gone dull,

and, of greater concern, a barbed-wire band burns my hand.

 

A whiff of fear: Is it over, have we come this far? Breathless

engines are paralyzed by the screech of departure echoing

at destination’s end. I cannot walk too petrified to pick off the

worms, or let pills kill the long hiss of pain. Writhing and grateful,

but too dull to think, the aborted heads end by one death, guiltless,

in my little fist, wordless and forgetful; shrunken voices,

on no one’s side, swallow sickness.

 

A counterfeit darkness has no mind, embalmed in a photo, eyeing

my scars. I keep watch over this vile creature whose shameful

smile terror and disgust has stigmatized.

 

 

Our featured poetess, Alexis Child, who hails from Toronto, Canada, sees horror in its purest form as a calculated crime both against the aspirations of the soul and affections of the heart. She has worked at a Call Crisis Centre befriending demons of the mind that roam freely amongst her writings and lived with a Calico-cat child sleuthing all that went bump in the night (and is haunted by the memory of her cat). She is once again signed to Nostilevo Records in the near future. Her goth rock band, Ceremony 7, will be reissued on this record label in the Fall. Her fiction has been featured in Screams of Terror, SinisterCity, SpecFicWorld.com, The House of Pain, The Official Fields of the Nephilim Site, and U.K.’s Dark of Night Magazine. Her poetry has been featured in numerous online and print publications, including Aphelion, Black Petals, Blood Moon RisingDeath Head Grin, Estronomicon eZine, Midnight Lullabies Anthology, Sein und Werden, The Horror Zine and elsewhere. Her first collection of poetry, “Devil in the Clock, will be released in print by Witchfinder Press. Visit http://www.angelfire.com/poetry/alexischild/

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