I Am the Antichrist to You
The miracles that befall my palm instill me a witch, whilst a man with the same athame is deemed a messiah. I am a sorcerer, but he is a prophet. Witchcraft is sinister whilst prophecy is benign. Why is it laudatory that he corrupts the blessed water into torpid wine?
Why was Mary Magdalene not a thirteenth apostle? Is it the moon’s phases, or the sporadic bodies of the lasses? I bleed time.
A woman is a translator’s dream, a dream of redaction.
Since I was a child, my body was made to reciprocate knives. So, I kept my casement opaque so that no slithering rain would fancy a cushion, but a basilisk has been a schlenter since time immemorial. The rain rushed to caress my wrist, and its fiery brush prolonged my exit of the harvest. Behind my misty memory lies a garden forsaken by me till its emerald decayed into moss. Macerated by touch, construed by acrimony.
And that garden holds loam envenomed with a venerable bane, and by its creed, I metamorphose a rose’s innocence into a leviathan. Perhaps, it scorns me now, but when the touch of the petals turns the miscreant into masonry, sight will penetrate.
My hands were sewn by some man’s imagination, and if I were to perish, the marble enmeshed into my carapace shalt never be made to abscond. Unclasp the carnage and ready the carriages; I fear the horses have softened to demur.
They forecasted a presage that would evince my crus to weave like a crisscross. An emblem of a covetous territory, one that would foreswear my pledge. And I keep my letters around my neighborhood fences for they keep my conniption nourished. They speak to me in favor of capitulation, that my lips should seek frost.
I besiege every piece of writing I read, hoping to escape the claws of a man. My endeavors of clenching the shadows of the martyred lasses deem me a devotee, and I perceive them like the proselyte discerns their new God.
I often wish to paint it all with the phantasms of this past, but I fall under the abetment of the present, and her sheer gown strips itself for me. Consumed, despoiled, swallowed by the sea. Poseidon hears my plea and waves his arm to send a second wave.
And every woman is a sylph, a succubus, a Cyprian, even the deities. Their crown is but a mnemonic badge serving the narration that a sire birthed them from his rib. Like a land waiting for autonomy, they await the troops. But the soldiers, with their shovels and drills, poison the soil’s seeds.
She bleeds lilies as her bones turn bloody, and her city walls cleave. Her thighs, once in bargain with a crate, can now fit vignettes of translucency. My sky eulogized thunder, and I granted amnesty to my cyclone. I was told that my wrath falls so deep that it blinds and blemishes, but if wrath is baleful, then why are my fruits of labor finally autarchic?
I abandoned all that was bidden for the sake of my womanhood. When the gates of paradise are unbarred, every spouse shalt find another. The naiads may never call for him, but he will solidly answer. And as you watch your companion of wind and fire behold another, water purloins him, and the promising creator yields you false indemnity. That is the word of the scripture I departed, and it was my matronly ancestry that occluded my sphere before it was I.
Vilified as if I were an archaic crusader, but with each passing ray, I mislay Acre and its trees. I call out for the chilling bones to crawl away, but they tell me they shalt forever roam this abode I call home.
You look at me as you paint, and suddenly I descend into a seashell without its Venus, an exuvia without its pearl. Forged solely by an inbred master who gave her his lechery, forgotten by an astute breath of life.
But the light bounces back at your reflection, and your mirror shalt grow aconite. Not as a ribbon, but as a sautoir around your nape. That lechery was never hers; it was yours to leave.
And I resent how these words materialize aromatically when they are the splintered rosaries inside my cathedral.
I am the Antichrist without a throne, a crack without a passing light, a skull without its bone. If that is what the reverse of me needs, then I will sink my cuspid into his monument and watch his rise to ash. And as it should have always been, he would cease to exist and his voice dares not tell me I am his menial clay.
