Emrys Ambrosius

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Part I: Pride is a Syrup

 

Drowned open in an ocean of my own sound,

bathed in the broth of textured air, compression and

release. Deep in the cave under the Tower, the dragons

contort and writhe against eachother, red against white.

Build the tower, watch it tumble down.

Build the tower, watch it tumble down. Pick up the bricks,

repeat. Thunder heartbursts the inside of the hill. Red vs. white.

Eyes flash in the dark. Phalanx of scales reflected off the black

water. Arpeggiated glyphs sing the night alive. Roar, rip. Dim flashes.

 

The work done in the day lies in pieces by the next dawn. Stones scattered

in the sighing grass. A ghost of a shadow of a forgotten pinprick

on the riled skin of heart. Sandals a wreck. Fetch me a boy with no father.

Bring his blood to the soil.

 

Part II: Death’s Honeyed Laughter

 

“Sure, my throat could spill all of me into the dirt, but until

you know what rumbles beneath the earth all your castles will

keep toppling.” No father, he’s nine years old, and Karma

swims through the air visible. He plucks the threads and music

chords, minor key humming groan. No father, he was meant to be

the Antichrist. Devil for a daddy, but his mother’s purity and prayer

washed his demon-blood awake. Red and white. He’s got Hell’s own eyes,

turned towards Heaven. Little boy with the angels and infernal choirs

both scared of him.

 

Ask him what’s under the earth. Can you guess? Who woke the dragons?

Who dug too deep, rush to build the walls tall. “No, listen. There’s a mutter

in the soil you can only hear with your arteries. Listen to the grimacing folk

you buried under all your hurry, your heavy stones. God is an everything word.

You left out the rippling matrices of enmeshed bacteria and mycelium, sheaths

within sheaths within heaving pant, aspirated digital holy texts ground under

the machinery of your safety. Now the earth herself revolts against you.

Why do they fight? Who broke their glassen slumber? Who struck this

horrible nerve? Who dug until you hit the pit, and now cry out

for help as all its devils rattle your walls?”

 

Part III: A Hint of Blood

 

Run, my pretties. Overrun the walls. Bring me each brick and with it

a name. The king who made a prince with his own daughter can build

and build, but never outrun the flames. The strings of karma that gain

in heaviness of dew before the eyes of a child awake. “Sure, call for

more sacrifices, but no blood with will quiet what you woke. Sure, shackle

all the people of this land, but no chains will stop every blade of grass

from rising in revolt. The dirt herself has fallen deeply in hate with your

rule, scatter or don’t, in this castle or your thousandth, your bed will

eat you alive in fire, and the stars will cackle at your wretched plea.”

 

The dragons burst from the mound like DNA, locked in broiling coil,

stones flying. The king runs for his life. He’ll never catch it.

The boy-child, nine, wholly Satan, wholly Saint, holy God his eyes

on fire as he draws the cloth over the cauldron. Sweet reek of mead

and the bliss rising as the serpents fall. Plunge, entwined, drunk

sunk to the bottom, turned to swine. Red and white. Locked in stone.

 

Part IV: The Tongue that Drinks the Light is Tasted by It

 

It’s another time. She steps out of the lake, she steps out of the space

between tree and field, the thinnest line, the boundary between flower

and not flower, the endless expanse between atoms, between proton

and electron, between red

 

and white. She steps into time and stumbles at the reeling shift. “Teach

me,” she asks him. He’s not little anymore. No longer boy. 36 still

with heaven and hell warmly splashing eachother in his open chest-cave.

“Teach me how to trap you.” He kisses the whole body of hummingbirds

to life along her spine. He reaches for God in her and touches

the surface tension, breaches the membrane, grasps God’s hand and pulls

Her through. God is an everything word. She breaks the capillary stars,

threading the tapestry from the center out to infinity. “Teach me how to trap

you,” she whispers, and he worships eternity in her heaving skin, worships

his tomb in her fractured static breath.

 

Part V: The Consequence is the Cause

 

Step-by-step instructions. He digs the gut. He builds the tomb. He prepares

the lock, the lid, and teachers her how to shut him in. And just as he reaches

peak velocity, just as the songbirds explode into a riot, apex of the spiral

tower of light, inhale, pull the universe in and never let go – silenced,

stone slab slams over his head, key turned, she carves the magic words

into him and locks him in-between. “Bury my head under the white hill,

face me towards the enemies of Love, so in eternal not-death I may turn

their towers to dust.

 

The wheel turns, the girls are dancing the swords again, crossed, we are

the bodies of stars playing at death. And in this game, everything is awake.

The chessboard plays on its own. A hand grasps a sword in the deep,

and thrusts it towards the light. Closer, approaching the surface tension. Breach.

This is what it looks like from God’s perspective when you pull Her through.

She offers you a sword. She builds the tower and she brings it down.

She raises the cruel king as an offering, for in his sin he draws the karma

of the people into himself and when she finally consumes him, worms and all,

eats him whole, drags him to the bottom, locks him in a stone coffin,

he is an offering to the earth, a bloody rose laid trembling

on the altar of the land. His life is only meant

for death, ten thousand daggers

born along side him

ribboning him

into soil.