Phosphorus & Vesperos

The kiss is a small offering of breath, a dedication of the soul to the divine presences of the moon and sun.

                    i. Light Bearer

To bring you light I have
blown a torch in the dark,
collecting in my mouth whatever sparks
it tossed off onto my tongue,
touches of ash blackening it the
way irony does every rite of
passage with shadows enough to manage
passing what gatekeeper keeps our love
on view only to himself, selfish
giant voyeur of our crippled consciences

wanting nothing else than to smother
his brother initiates, confederate originals of
which every firebrand is imitative, illegitimate
heirs to this kiss of ours
whose burn starts what no amount
of remorse can scrub off, a
cock’s massive attack this tongue of
mine smarts, its wounds pooling puddles
of stain, yelping quarries from the
harried pits of which evening stars

burst like swollen cherries refusing to
resist the sweating advances of dawn’s
panting harvest song, pops of flash
igniting glistening horizons of spread ass
with bulbous bubbles of stinging pleasure
felched from the gaping plot holes
of fallen gods who have outlived
their own myths, to which our
inhibitions submit when so pressured to
yield again what avalanches of oyster

tears my oceanic comeuppance Titanic in
its drilling spilled in where I
sunk my teeth, eating you as
the world slept, living well is
true vengeance, says every degenerate from
whose full lips such hidden wisdom’s
fruit as this bruises from lack
of use as much as from
abuse, spits its pilfered seeds, as
I do now and so well,

          as Vulcan’s bowels unloose pure flame

                    ii. Evening Star

which, without shame at all, my
candid truth soils the soul, corrupting
youth with what words erupt, your
loins filthied with twitching anticipation for
the unfiltered river of heat my
albatross jaws leak into your shallow
little well from the narrow walls
of which this pitchfork breath
of mine has played against and
rubbed deep, sword in hand, stroking

it, stoking smoke of sin scorching
off lungfuls of your musk’s scent
the corsair in me ventures into
you to pillage and keep as
a visceral memory, decency my sworn
enemy, seeking as I have been
since our twinned beginning to reconcile
the opposites of our uses and
functions, juxtaposing our roles, questioning the
purpose of our existence, confirming it

is to test limits and emerge
victorious in the face of all
odds, the chips always stacked against
us, walls are only built to
fall, finding in every thing other
than our shared appetite nothing better
than the satisfaction of having fulfilled
two new fantasies with one more
transgression against the morals and opinions
of a society we exiled our

Selves from, alienating its entire population
in the name of expressing explicitly,
authentically, and without censure our sexuality
which, every century since the (mis)advent(ure)
of Christianity, Mother Church has condemned
as being against Nature, threatening no
one but her ill-won authority over
the desires of men, take my
hand, dear friend, I am your
companion wandering together this dying planet,

          bringing enlightenment to our fellow pagans.

1Patrick Dunn, “Chapter 3: The Addresses of the Gods” in The Practical Art of Divine Magic: Contemporary & Ancient Techniques of Theurgy, published at Woodbury, Minnesota by Llewellyn Worldwide in 2015; page 123.