I
the lighthouse outside of Spinalonga!
how it collapsed a moon ago,
or maybe many moons ago,
not one person can remember!
(not even the harbors remember).
as it had fallen, lepers, those with arms left,
and those whose legs still worked,
founded and tended an eden-garden
as weed and thistle grew out of the towerfall rubble,
and in the very middle of that garden
the lepers erected a dolmen
as in honour as an epitaph,
in sacred remembrance
of the mythic pharos which once stood there,
and they spellbound it with some hokus pokus magic
during forty days and nights of ritual,
as to render it a watchtower anew -
and sometimes magic fucking works, so nowadays
it emanates a light so strong
that even leviathan becomes grumpy from it
as its rays penetrate the shallower waters
and rouses her from the bellows,
a hundred-thousand fathoms beneath
the jasmin veil of night eternities above.
II
there was once a duchess on Spinalonga,
a burdened widow of remorse, yes,
the duke had died from dysentery
and it is said that
his vomit painted beautiful paintings!
some of them still hang in the tower stairway
and once in this very tower had i a vision imbued by them,
a vision of the duchess herself:
she was naked
and had an ancient woman's body
as if she had laid in a bog for centuries...
and also she had very long black hair
which was kind of beautiful-
had not her face been that of a bloated corpse,
with eyes pushing out of their sockets,
and her skin black as coal and leathery...
her face was that of a sorceress
and her heart was black as the soot of life
and when she so opened her bewitching mouth
a serpent came from thereout
and was to bear speech to the lepers of the colony,
but as one of them did not smile for her entrance,
she changed her mind,
the serpent retracted throatward,
and the duchess, she remained silent.
she has not spoken since.
III
the arch of lazarus hangs welcoming
over the entrance to the brothel of the lynched children,
and as the rotting ones pass these gates of sighs,
all the oubliettes beneath
which are hidden in the bedrock all around the island
smile in the sullen undergrowth,
for we find in them, in the soil thereunder,
failed but courageous heroines,
the skeletal and obsequial remains of them,
their tombs and their old ossuaries,
and scratches from their nails adorn the walls of them,
for not a rage can outcompare that of a leprous harlot,
yes indeed, there is no corpse which exudes
a sulphur-gas of odium more so
than the corpse of a desecrated, leprous woman.
may these spirits reach the angstloch
as to release themselves?
we need getting into the catacombs of Spinalonga
as to save them! or rather, what is left of these mazeways,
the one which is buried under an age of rubble and ruin,
sleeping under ash and the golden pumice
from that time when the heavens opened
like children's mouths
and volcanic rock poured out therefrom
and cracked and broke thunderously...
IV
i am it!
this tower!
and i have fallen - but still
i guard the coast with hawk's eye,
and strike do i with beak and with claw
and terror shall not stop me in my tracks - if demanded!
and i piss also in the ocean like gods do
with nonchalance and with bravado...
i am i!
in opia
with the devil's eye of storms
i am locked with it
as if punishment,
inside it, immured into it,
and the light i emit
is a light that leers like a sore
around which
the beetles crawl and the botflies swarm...
Spingalonga - island of death and rot:
enthronements of human faeces,
rotten faces of black, vile dogs,
maschalized infant botchings,
young girls perished in morbid marasmus,
syringes, small plastic bags, lighters...
the pazuzu-fever, plague of death,
leprosy colony Spingalonga
welcomes all!
like a brave new world
reduced
to pieces of excrement -
a world where coprolith
outvalues amber
and is regarded with higher aesthetic esteem,
a scolding earth
crisp from fire,
scorched and burnt,
but confused still, scared, and lonely,
like a human.
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