The poetry of Isis of Khemet

Full Up

She's under a shadow
in a doorway
pushing her pulse out of her wrist.
She's licking her lips
but not to quickly,
black and silken fine.
Careful twitch behind closed eyes
she waits, and waits to bite...
Never more than a drop or two,
never too much at a time.
Young--she knows--too young to fight.
And the storm of souls
with it's swirl of something
bigger, darker, fatter than She--
would swallow her whole
if she took too much
shook to much from the hole.
And breathe she does
so deep of thus,
wishing, loving, missing--
all she left behind.
Until that soft chill
with bitter practiced skill
creeps up her moonlit spine;
and she plunges headlong
into the fire
of life and death and Sire.
She is first, last, always--
Mine.

The Last Supper

Thick and black
The ribbon tight
Wound round her eyes;
Wound round her right.
She shakes and sighs
Wiggles and writhes,
Never feels the liquid knife.
Trickle fickle
Fire here--
Inside her thighs,
Bloody tear.
The cup is placed
Between her lie
Catching tissue,
Catching life.
Oh Mary Magdelene,
Who art not in hell,
And never heaven--
Hollow be thy soul,
And drunk by a table thus
To keep thy Son in blood.
To keep him in trust...
And should ye rise again
On that sunday shroud
And hover o'er Him
Dripping from blackness
The ichor of His breach,
His power; His leech...
For hungry are the fools
That follow love blindly.
Temptation last
The whore made saint,
Would drink her progeny
And sweet vengence taint,
"For God," said she angry--
"The world must wait..."