At Dusk I fell.
Under the waving fronds, at the cool water’s edge, the monkeys that spoke lured me into her beguiling embrace.
Crept upon in the gathering gloom, I faltered before her oval-eyed glare.
The hand, you wonder, weird-worker, that brought me to this tomb of despair?
No red hand of man felled Yusef bin Yiju—not on your sissy divan had I been bred, but on the hard-sorrow bones of a murdered land.
It was a kiss that covered me in dread, the soul-drinking candle that flickered behind her alabaster mask, a mask with batting lashes, twinkling nose, creased cheek, and pouting lips—a mask that lived as the serpent lives on those betrayed by hypnotized eyes.
Death came softly welcome to my forge door, seething up from the moist earth, worms of dissolution to pick the sorrowful flesh from stilled bone.
Then she did rise in the sky, whore of all, mistress of the night, the slithering world bloomed awful in her light.
Whence came you—ghoul of souls—clay shade pot in hand, weird words on lip, so saying I should go if I but let you know?
Know what, weird-worker, under this glowering moon—how I came here or why your dainty hide should quiver in fear?
Reverent Chandler: The Saga of Fend
link › jameslafond.blogspot.com
