| Prologue From The Book Morgue
a poem in seven parts
by Alfred James Buono
(1)
Perhaps
it was the way
she would arise, up each day,
ritually
diurnally
summoned forth from slumber
in another place, space
unexplored, save
within dreams
unencumbered
in time
unnumbered
To paint
with words, a thousand
million words splashed insouciantly
upon the canvas with a narrow brush
in a febrile rush
of breath and life
rife
with strife and pain, words
neither bland nor plain, nor
indeed
sane.
Ever
might he live
in pursuit of that which
he had lost at birth, essence
sundered
obsequiously surrendered
within the placenta desiccate
of his mother’s womb
neither
to recall nor recollect his face
before ever he was
born.
(2)
Life would
in time, become cumulative
exposures of experiences
extant
consciousness dull, duel
limned and ill-defined
refined
within time, within space
awareness, pure and sensate
emotional and mental, perhaps
prenatal.
And what of death?
and of transcendence?
what consciousness then?
when?
She was love, he was not
she begot, he might not
about her
doom would ever loom
life at risk, life unstable
that might enable
her
to not become her mother
nor any other
but her
self.
Married gamic she
not yet twenty-three, lead singer
in a rock and roll band
neither for love
nor for élan
but caress of his hand upon her
pudenda, her lips taut
about his agenda.
(3)
Call her
Lizabeth: Liz-Beth
gentle as a
breath
upon a petalled rose
her very Irish nose
smiled her entire face
behind eyes, lies
compromise of fate
predestination
predilection.
He sang
to her with
unmoved lips, yet
released her psyche
and her soul
from that too taut cocoon
of church and school
and home
from dogma and
doctrine
tenet to temptation.
Obsessed
was he
with the conquest
of her chest, his soul
incest
to divest
now all women
become his quest.
(4)
Unknown
emotions spiraled
in spider spun web
from that void
betwixt
her thighs to that sun
between
her eyes, pudenda to amygdale
orgasm did arise
kundalini
might she never come to
recognize.
Freckled
of face, smile
toothed and eminently straight
atop a rounded chin
tucked delicate within
her body, lithe
and boylike, perhaps
once, in time,
a catamite of Socrates
and Plato.
Child
ever and forever
sprite of midsummer dream
untethered
of law nor order
loosed from virginity
femininity
ignominy.
(5)
No longer
his voice did sing
his arms did cling
to her
new winged Apollo
hollow, daring god of sun
his muses, now, each night
to follow.
Impermanence
her heart, entranced
had ever sensed
an end
to begin again, anew
Liz-Beth, in pain
withdrew.
Call him
Nick, Nicholas
lad, alas, with hubris
did all surpass
in conquest, sedulous
in faith, credulous
truth unfound upon the ground
of his too, too
mortal
soul.
Life
and death foretold, yet
to unfold in gold
minded
from veins of those about him
charisma
adulation and
transubstantiation.
(6)
Measured minds
untreasured appanage
sudden had she become mirage
oneiric, decoupage upon
frottage
of fright.
Kenosis did
beget necrosis
of soul
and body, spirit
suppuration amidst
cohabitation
despoiled, roiled now
upon a slab
drab.
Her
diptych tongue
long dwelt within his navel
to trace the knot
of his
umbilicus, severed
slithered now
down that trunk, forbidden
tree of Yahweh’s
Garden
defoliated and unhidden, unbidden
knowledge of death and life
and of damnation, now
within her hands
the serpent’s gift of
procreation.
(7)
Nympholepsy
their quest foredoomed
vaticination loomed
burned she
in chism’s crucible, execrable
returned he
to
desquamation
lamentation.
Liz-Beth
from death
exhumed, resumed
what meaning
to her life
devolved upon lubricity
sought
transcendency
upon a plane
unknown
unknowable.
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