The Serpent That Calls The Marsh

The serpent that calls the marsh
Speaks with a tongue of frothing wisdom.
He sees the life that lurks
Beneath the waves. His forkèd evil
Sways the tides and those who walk
Between the lucid planes ascertain
His presence most of all. Is there
No hope for those who’ve fallen
Deep within his coils? Is there
No hope for those who hear his call
In nights of sulfur, when Saturn’s
Moons come hurling down and sears
The flesh of praying tongues?

The Progeny: A Corruption of Mortal Creation

Like strange gods entwined
In fields of deadly blossoms,
We made abominations together.
Mangled and nameless things forged
From the supple skin of Perversion
And the yielding bones of Wickedness.

With our flesh pressed close
Like layers of rigid Earth grinding
Back and forth in ceaseless toil,
We sent forth writhing waves of violence
And sang in deep, ecstatic moans,
“Darkness, thy name is Pleasure.”

Woe unto these children of Corruption
Who praise our dark, unholy names.
Lo, the seeds of sinful unions—
Children of the vile divine,
Sons conceived in chthonic fires,
And daughters born to heinous times.

Eli T. Mond is the creative alias of David Davis; a writer, artist, and mystic from Detroit, MI. He is the Founding Editor of The Ibis Head Review, a quarterly poetry publication. He’s had poetry published in GFT Press, Lyceum, Sick Lit Magazine, Excavation, and Young Ravens Literary Review. | www.elitmond.com