The Poison Pen Talks Quietly - Negromorphasis

by Negromorphasis the Alchemist

Without even a hint of hesitation he dips
the tip of the pen into the bottle, only
used one other time, unmasking the
purest fume, as the far right
with visions of the 1850s: a pregnant
black woman dangles from the tree – “Black
Pearls.” Crows perch above, dropping their
dung, digging in with razor sharp beaks, disarming
this alleged “Nigger’s” flesh, like a C-Section
exposing the half white baby. It swan dives
to the earth, a frenzy in the air, and nothing
remains, but the cheering of the mob, and full
stomachs, from the cursed buffet – publicly
placed for the privileged all to attest – making others even
in their disguises uncomfortable, like
what has just been scribed. Even you
knowing what is written is the truth, for this
is your vision as well, sitting on your privilege,
you allow this hate to continue.

Remembering every face, every disguise,
the Alchemist drifts effortlessly into a dark
state. He speaks rapidly in the dialect
of the Cobra, summoning a sea of curses, awaiting
the divine to bestow the power, a prayer
to bring it to fruition, before the footstool.
On the brink of tears, certain of that which
Which will be rendered to them: a world
Where you will live but never die, as the body
begs for the father who will never acknowledge
those without the seal, ignoring the cries
as the flames sing and gyrate in seductive unison,
beckoning the lost to the darkness of eternity.

Meticulously, at this point, the Alchemist
dips the tip, in almost slow motion, into the bottle
labeled “Venom.” He begins to scribe into
into the flesh of his very own chest – “I am wrath.”
breaking his skin, essence of life spilling
onto the floor.

He looks at the world, in spiritual disgust, so
he begins to drink all that was meant for you: Sin
from a rotting milk carton, left in the neighbors trash
all summer. Each sip unleashed another vengeful entity,
swirling and teaming they ignite
a battle within – good and evil –
as baleful tone emerges from the gates - extracting jubilation
from the corners of his mouth. A legion of soldiers
in Russian uniform, riding Arabian camels
to conquer America, crossing the visual, in cartoon pixels
out of nowhere. Meanwhile Vermont’s
solution to the opioid crisis is to get everyone hooked
on the state approved opioids – a mad laughter in one's belly.

Kneeling down, lapping up life with just the index finger,
he admires the beauty rubbing it
together between finger and thumb, forming
just enough for the next message -We all know no one can serve two masters. He will love the one and grow to hate the other. I have fought for the mentally ill, the abused, the addicted, the lustful, the vain – all the temptations. My love is unconditioned. Even when they continue to reject me, I love them, more
than anything in this world. But the clock has expired
and they are yours.

… walking away with undefeated steps, the profit proceeds
not looking back, into the light. He drops the mask, watching
in astonishment as winged creatures appear
from undulating clouds. Riding battle-bred horses,
brandishing proven swords, they fall in unison
on command. I turn slowly to face them, point my sword,
and so it begins.