… come together.

By J. K. McDowell

October 2016

 

Caustics are of no use against the alchemical

Torments of ones own making. Beneath the grimore’s

Marbled endpapers a formula appears.

 

The keyboard clack clicks as I tap out the hack of

My own consciousness. I review the code and

Imagine the bytes beneath and the lost pointers.

 

Istanbul artisans know the gel-git tracing’s

Beneath heaven’s illness. Despite the design,

Worms feed – even on lost feathers of angel wings.

 

A desire beneath insane digests the lining

Of what I thought was my inner strength. My hidden

Disposition twisting, uncoiled and unpleasant.

 

Miss G. says, “The place you should go is Tangier.

Alice and I’ve spent three summers there, and it’s fine.”

The demons in the desert were beneath mentioning.

 

Morocco was already whispering promises in

My ear, the cool burn of claws beneath my scalp.

Sips of whiskey as poem and plan come together.

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