Brooke Axtell

kore of the incantation

stage light one. scarlet spot. she enters.

Ladies & gentlemen (with sparrows sleeping in your

overcoat pockets), dream-Eaters, Calvary of the New Elite,

Crew of the Crystal Ball,

you know well the name of my mother, the One

you call Demeter. i am her inheritor. Yes,

and can any of you in the burgundy rows guess

what gift she has given? can any of you in yellow

chiffon gowns answer this?

what has she given?

answer: “mink.” applause. no.

answer: “land choking on diamonds & oil gush!”

applause. no.

answer. hoor-ray. no.

there is but one inheritance:

i must be

possessed, 

possessed & possessed undressed

by man and woman teeth in this life & the next.

(blinking, mouths limp, clearing their throats of thorns).

Men throw pennies & crow. the women Chatter

& curse while smiling (expensive smiles).

Someone wants

a piece,

a pole dancer, an answer.

SHE would love this:

an audience for the sacred slaughter.

they still believe she wants to save me

from the callous hands of my rape(her), my underground

rapper, lead-eyed husband who loves the way

chains hang across my slender white oleander body leaving silver bruise

(captive’s adornment).

it is not true.

infanta,

tell them of the sacrifice.

(should we even waste the baby’s breath

on this crowd of lepers who rave

for the slut to shut up & dance, dance, dance, slicked with olive oil,

in the hail of change?)

Yes, i have called her Black Madonna

& licked the arches of her soiled feet,

but let me tell you what she has given me.

in the blue playroom on high

the gods passed me round

like a jeweled doll for thrust & barter,

toy for the famished pantheon of girls & boys to mud up,

drop from the top of lewd stairs & lipstick with dirty words.

“Cunt, pussy, whore, ADORA, ADORA!”

it is miracle!

you cannot break her. she is invincible,

invisible & when she bats her lashes the coin

comes (cums)& deals are done & everyone shakes hands

& signs on the line. snorts another snake of coke.

who is the master now? who will be liquor poured over ice?

do not be struck numb. the mother does not come

to save. she wants to drink my maiden

head forever & splash & suck the fount.

i was faun in her fingers served up for the desolate feast

along side the barley drink & sheaves of wheat.

(you are still not convinced that she is

who i say she is).

enough. no more introduction.

let us just say i have succeeded

in being

Touched.

Lights Down. Curtain.

aphrodite’s bite

I.

tonight i ride my motorcycle naked

through the desert, mane madly streaming behind me.

i’ve got a gig i can’t miss.

it is my parting gift.

there will be no more of me captured for the scream

of the screen. body glitter, rooster red pout, the same listless

scene: three men, seven men, seven hundred.

how many slaves does a God-Girl need?

they come to me dragging their chains, offering sacrifice

of incense, sacrifice of dove.

martini.

more pancake make-up. cover the wisdom of years. they fear the knowing woman, deep well woman. yes,

i’ve played my hand. let the young things waltz in,

spread their creamy asses & take it as the boys please.

the dialogue don’t dance. the panting is imposter.

i am sick of the false steam.

my way is deeper than this entrance.

mock me.

fine. i will harness you to havoc, wolf on a shocking leash.

i am desire

& you will not stand when i come for you, man.

the priestess howls hotly carrying her gold bowl for the lapping.

lap me.

we both know that you are thirsty

& the thirst will never cease.

how dare anyone transgress

against the holy hunger?

even now the temple harlots bow & feed.

please, sir, you cannot reign me in.

all these porn posers got nothin’ on my sacred servants.

you have not seen a woman move

until you gaze on me, rising from the sea, circled by dolphins,

pomegranate bleeding from the teeth.

fellas fear what they cannot control.

consider me wholly unpredictable

as i cannot be captured in the frame,

cannot be reeled in for the film feel.

i did what i needed to do to survive.

but the trick is on you, baby. my verbal venus is alive & demands

the reverence owed her. they call me the dark unholy.

but i know who they pant for.

we never die we just take the magic blood under cover.

my war-making lover turned himself into a bull to gore my blonde hunter.

they will not cease to battle for me.

who will own me in the end?

the film company, the posh pimp, the sooty blacksmith husband hammering out gold gifts?

no. know. it comes to this:

tonight is my last gig & then i am going

solo. gonna crush the limes all over my flesh. gonna tear my way past the apple’s red dress. gonna sport my holy hunger all ‘round town.

you can’t keep a woman of the water down.

II.

the triple X skin

has got nothing on my fever binge (this is the right of my aphrodite Bite).

you know who i am, (loaded & locked for more than the cock)

crowing under the incantation of the coke line

& blue crime light.

villian.

all right, do your worst work

& i will best you still, swallowing your sad silt

in my rose garden where

my electric chair shines, shines.

blind boy you be. for i can divine all the ways

to make you mine. i was born when the balls of god the father

were cut off & thrown into the sea,

from that boiling

foam i came rising with the red-gold hair & glistening body.

i am the holy obscene icon of your urge & itch, spitting

skillet of a bitch Girl-God

who will not permit you to poison another brash body curve

with your sickening cinema, this imposter parade of slick flesh on cue.

you call this desire?

you call this hotter than a hell hound?

your blindfold has you beat.

nothing can overthrow my ambrosia, my deviant dew.

did you hear of that man who would not let his mares breed freely?

well, i commanded those heretic horses to throw him to the gravel

& eat him alive (dull eye to fat feet). gutted.

this is my last night in the raunchy

rites of the eternal spring (bunny? no. i am drunken tiger & teething on you) so this must end when my dark devouring mouth sets in.

they call me man-eater, gravedigger, howl of the unholy.

look for me. i am the one who turns stone girl to gush of flesh

so she can caress and suck as she pleases (the sculptor): or be

her own sculptor, secret weapon, red door to heaven.

SHE pleases (as she pleases).

“stand still or do my will.”

your morning glories can wait, but you will be gaping

at the moan of my mad milk command. i will pin you to the glass wall,

burn your stalls, push you to earth & deeper still (bury you there).

dare you

taunt the queen of heaven straddling her furious swan.

it’s predator’s pick

& you’re it.

tell me why you believe you can match my thunder.

o child, i was born to take you under.

Artemis Ain’t Up For Sale

(How the God-Girl Sticks Around Until the She-Bears Break Loose)

I.

The ancients call me Artemis.

But you can call me Art.

I’ve got more than gore-lovin’ arrows in my pink quiver.

But the Camera Crew Killers don’t know much about the Wild Word,

don’t know much about the double-headed Axe in the womb.

The white leather sofa, the crocodile platform shoe,

the disfigured tit are supposed to prove she is Irresistible & Easy To Come To. Not me. I am chased & never netted, never wetted,

wed or bedded.

These boys know nothing ‘bout a woman.

All they see is the moist heaving plot & give her the gotcha & love the scream. Damn thing.

Fuck her with a barstool if that’s what gets you off.

Amateurs.

The woman

is no Woman when she wants only to be wanted.

I’ve slain a boar in my day.

& I’d rather play barefoot

with leopards & soul singer nymphs than stand ‘round like this

watching the hazard.

I hoard the evidence. I am a patient huntress.

Bull’s eye. I eat it.

Props. Light Cues.

Who knew how far a Feral God-Girl

could plunge? Playing Priestess of the Untamed

ain’t what it used to be. Now everything must

be bought & sold, spun into gold screen that rots. Film (un)Reel.

We lose our hold so quickly in this mercenary art.

I am on that merchant ship, the rip off. Shine

a porn light on the mammals panting.

Even so,

See, there are rifles wrapped in white lingerie.

Unsuspecting?

Yes.

“What’s in the bag, in the body?”

Heavy artillery.

I tell them, but they believe it’s a hoax.

No, no hoax, child. A Hex, a Vex in verse, a Curse, but CUM ON

“We are only acting clever for the Pussy.” So,

BOOT THAT SHIT.

II.

Let me tell you (she lights another cigarette)

how we play it ‘round here. I am still empress

of the forest, panther & long-eared hounds howling at my side

but I keep it all undercover. Here we wait

for wood, wait for the satin rip, for the root swell & dusk-wet split.

Then crawl into our empty beds just before dawn.

Have you seen my tattoo? The heavenlyblacksmithboy

& mad monster of the third eye carved me up

real good, darlin’.

Want a drink? Just think of all the ways I can still

punish the lurker slobbering over young crevice

& blue eyelash,

punish the round-bellied rapist, the foul-breathed

braggart. I know my art. I know my art fierce & deep.

I call it bloodbath. (Of the Unsuspecting).

You think you are the better hunter?

Do you believe you are the sharper spy?

Look into my cannibal eyes.

Do not be deceived by the maiden dance. I may collect

the dolls, the blonde curls, plastic toys of those who choose

to give themselves over to the rants of man mouths.

(Fine, go get yourself Licked). But I am no fool. Even today

boys try & steal the cheese from my altar

& must be whipped.

Defy me

& see how quickly you can be the felled tree.

The cypress calls to me still.

I remember when I saved an abandoned baby girl who would have

died from exposure (gods know) & gave her to a bear to be

suckled. Hunters raised that wild one. Now she carries bullets under tongue. She does not merely live.

She smolders.

& me? Let me see. I’ve still got a way with the arrow tip. Gaze on me

as I bathe in the hidden pool & I will turn you into a stag, set your own

dogs on you with a rabid bite.

I am still crowned with the crescent moon.

I am still clawing the fallow to fertile ground.

I am still sporting the virgin veil,

but I am undercover.

How do you keep your heart open in hell?

III.

This trade is a rough trade,

but I give nothing away.

Lights. Camera. Fashion an escape plan: that’s what I tell them.

Tell them not to fall under the sad slumber for good.

Tell the pretty posers, these stripped starlets to wake

& kiss the mouth of thunder or the camera will take them 7 feet down & deeper. Deep throat of the Grave where the Groaning Don’t Quit.

If I cannot stir them I begin shouting (like this):

The God of Little Girls has got your back, Baby.

Be your own secret weapon.

Subvert the attack.

Even as you spread your thighs you can plot an uprising!

& Now if you will excuse me I have work to do.

Soon they will demand the handcuffs & leather.

How do we weather it?

There is more than one way to make a killing.

This is no sacred grove, but I know where I stand all the same.

I midwife and murder as I please.

Beware of the panther who prowls with me

even under the sick sizzle of the redlight,

even beside the oiled ache of these babes playing sweltering puppet, playing I WANT IT with the forced fiend mouth. (all the men want an easy way IN).

I shout & shout & shout

& their scars shout back.

& I am waiting in the wings with a sneak attack

until my battered babies, my little she-bears

SEE

The Way

OUT.

Athena’s Eye (She be through with the Camera Crew)

I.

Action.

I am the Cool Camera Eye with the Owl Angle,

Dirty director’s cut that scripts the sluts

& sics the heroes on each other with the wayward strut.

Athena

of the gaze that gleams from scene to desolate scene,

chewing olives & ivory bones. Snap of fingers & they kneel,

keel for the keening, ‘cause I blast through as the front-line fighter,

forerunner on the rampage twist (even here among the porn pics at the last flicker). Wherever you find a man

you will find me with my battle plans

rolled up under virgin helmet. They can barely bear it:

Taking orders from a Woman, God-Girl in the Grit

of the sickly slain, quivering sugar cane under my wet fist.

It was prophesied that I would be more mighty than my father

so he ate my mother (that pregnant fly) & tried to quench this rise.

but it only made me stir razor thunder in his head.

They cleaved open his skull with the loud

labrys to loose me.

You must choose me in the end.

I lead the way into battle, beat the drum over the fallen,

serpent fringe at my shield. I once turned a greedy girl to stone, dismissed her from the show. I blinded a boy for setting his gaze

to feed fetish on me.

I transformed one who defiled my temple into a snake-haired monster, grey man-crusher. Transfigured & fixed another bitch into a spider.

I hide my sea-eagle spread to do the next scene

& shout commands at this Dull-Iris Crew.

I can’t go ‘round howling in the sour streets no more. I can’t go ‘round howling, “Listen to me! Seek me Lady Wisdom for the Wound. Hush Baby bye & let me croon over you. Adore me & I will cradle you smooth.”

I cannot cry out any longer because the hour of favor is over.

You denied my rogue rubies & the Owl Eye offering.

So roll on.

You believe you are wise in your own eyes

but you have forsaken the Word that holds the sky in place.

Now you must watch it falling as I be through with you, fool son,

through with you & the Camera Crew (now crawling on stale groans).

I know I once made my killing here, but that feverish

farce won’t last. Cash in. Choose HER or count the cost

of being counted among the lost.

II.

This will be your last warning. The chant is churning:

You got your film reel for a steal,

but you will be forced to learn, that all of this will turn to dust

& all your pretty pictures burn. You’ve got a third eye for the kill.

You’ve got a taste for flesh that’s young. You have desires to fulfill.

But you’re not the only one.

I stuck around this silver hive

until I could show all the girls how to come alive to the Owl Eye hidden inside the lie of this lap dance disaster,

this forged signature on the pale back.

We were all practicing our poses (gods know) but now it is time to expose the show.

                         You have not seen war until you have met me.

I need no consort or lover and now it is your turn to see what you could never augur. Guess what I will do with your waxen flesh.

Shame, shame, shame.

A babe was born where your rape wool bloomed

& she’s coming for you. My Seed will be your foe

& you should have considered what might be simmering below,

but you were fixed to the shimmer of a girl in black thigh-highs,

clawing at the gold pot of the one painted up for the trot.

Pure Bred, she will flog you, leave nothing of you but a few dull photographs scattered on the soiled carpet.

Did you think you could steal

without me coming for the cost?

I am costly, beast, costly & I will take my dough

from your coughing trough.

You cannot escape the way I weave my noose around you. I am master

in the arts of the Hidden Eye.  Thread to thread I make your bed.

My camera says

it’s time for you to die.

Click. Click. Click.

Close

Shutter.