I am the Dark Art
I am the View. He is the Living Book.
The face I wear is the Seal of Venus
so open me and let me be your face
as I walk in the places
made by the mouth of Man.
I walk into the Book. I flow into the Book.
I am The Unusual. He is the Dangerous. We are The Work.
Will he blow my trumpet of Venus
before he is silenced
and walk among the common empty-eyed people
with an impotent voice?
Ah, the man in the ear has become broken mirror pieces.
Am I to be sexualized when I am a Stygian Sojourner
until I am a dark room;
and this wooly-haired Black Venus
is for the naughty and nice
when my companion cannot eclipse his passions.
Will he let his passion own him
before he is the Silence, an alchemical text?
Will he be burned out of existence
as he lets his hand, his mouth, his anus
bring him the orgasm outside him?
Will he blow the trumpet of Venus
when he appears as something else?
I stand in the chaotic in-between places
chanting his many names to bring him into one
as I open to him as a talismanic image
so he can be consecrated into the First Magic.
He is an indigenous follower.
He enters me as alchemy.
He travels the underground stream.
The screech owl announces me as a riddle and a prophecy.
I step out of the mirror with the Song
as he becomes a throne companion to this Androgyny.
I am the Dark Art.
He will be struck by my thunder rod;
and I will release my utterings
as manna from Beyond.
I will flow into him;
and he will become a living tree
where this phoenix will sit and be an oracle
as I am seeded into him.
I will not know peace
until we are no longer a trinity.
I am a Black Venus
with an Osirian phallus.
I have lain upon trees
as I have laid upon lovers
and have eaten their apocalypse.
I have given a hunger,
an infinite sadness,
that I must now harvest
so this weeping stone
can become a Treasure of the Working.
Will he blow the trumpet of Venus,
become a black book companion
to this Sun of the concealed Father?
I am the Dark Art.
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