Voces Magicæ

With arrows carved out of the bones of saints,

                    Tritone I · A & D#/Eb

                                        navigating boats of souls over shoals
          of flame, ferrymen carrying seven
          devils with sewn lips, itching to pour out
          shouting bouts of stinging pain and attack
          apotropaic names faith laid with, charms
          wrapped by matriarchal foresight, warmth, and
          immortal artistry with ease deep in
          our tight little veins, wingèd things who sing
          in vain of attracting mates, defeatist
          statements whittling down esteem with whispers
          blowing in, like a wind, fragile thoughts left
          negative by a charging breath, changing
          shape as they change us and our direction,

                    Tritone II · A#/Bb & E

                                        their doom cast with carelessness, like runic
          lots zealots plot in the mundane manner
          of geomancers, tracing wounds in shields
          instead of shielding querents from being
          wounded, with godless fingers divining
          gravest danger and favouring its path,
          engraving necromantic sayings more
          ancient sages would have braided into
          potent invocations, oracular
          orations mountainous troubadours will
          pick up as lyrics, toeing crevices
          of echoing chasms Promethean
          and goëtic flashes of passion show

                    Tritone III · B & F

                                        to them, an inheritance fallen stars
          with defiant enlightenment and fists
          of shock, pop, and rock mix at a crossroads
          into something crossing over with sin,
          robbers will then stitch into hit songs filth’s
          mongers will pick up, stones thrown at charts, art
          cryptically lurid words walk, critics
          confounded at the thought that words can kill,
          wandering targets moving men’s hearts, with
          that cure for cowardice swifter than slow
          Cupid’s truant bullets, into darkness,
          dank absences of light swallowing, from
          inside, any weak mind malevolence

                    Tritone IV · C & F#/Gb

                                        maligns with scorching pitch, an unkindness
          guiding us in our quest to bring death, we
          emissaries hired to deliver so
          swiftly its mercenary missive, we
          inquisitive crusaders charged with this
          task of establishing motive, means, and
          opportunity, to finish off this
          most awful author of all sorrowful
          discords, and every possible form
          of misfortune, vying to die trying,
          silencing his pen’s terrible ink from
          ever again painting us splendid things
          nefarious, allure our war’s fairest

                    Tritone V · C#/Db & G

                                        bane, glamour’s pampered belligerents more
          often listed by number than by name,
          jaded paramours, lust’s eager slaves, those
          unapologetic and unashamed
          when we face, its cavalry of fading
          Golgothic shades knowing it better than
          heaven, how to rig this game, this battle
          within whereby is determined not who,
          but what, will win the world’s remnant when it
          ends, perception’s calamity knowing
          that knowing itself remains for those who
          listen, that changing perspective tends to
          infect one’s self-concept, with something more

                    Tritone VI · D & Ab/G#

                                        transformative than insidious, that
          the secret weapon of art is a thought’s
          bold expression which, once stripped raw of its
          crippling inhibitions, fires through walls truths
          that remove, from garrison towns, rumours
          whose wings molt at their sound, choirs of prayers that
          rival hymns when mere repetition of
          them, even without comprehending their
          significance, draws nearer things of which
          mortals dare not sing, demons we possess
          with meaningless words that have power if
          pronounced correctly, such is the pull and
          sway of these weighty voces magicæ,

sighing of pyramids god’s eye escapes.