The Banquet


Image found HERE

The Banquet

Sweet woe, a death knot in my chest
claims he is your cure!
A virtuoso spun of darkness
and open wounds
colors everything to music;
red blood, red love, red furniture,
the cannibals are seated at the table,
the sacrilege is pounding
for the nature of the beast,
the mountains and the rivers
crumble, gargle into piles of rubble,
they collide and echo
Let us feast, let us feast!

Like you have bribed him so you think a coin
can encrypt your loins,
like you can trick him and whitewash him blank,
like you can cut of his hands so he would play
with his lips,
like he is blind, mute and deaf
you think you should be renamed,
and you legs are open
asking absinth symphonies
to drain you –
an entity of gluttony
to cut his ribs and feed you,
you are a mouthful of lust.
But he is merely a musician
playing symphonies
you listen, ’cause you must.

You ask me why I weep, and why detain
the carnival of all Nirvana
and settle for the grains
of sand in deserts
flaming, lonely;
how can I not heed delirium,
how can I not sate the cell and mind,
like I am defiant and cursed,
why not take the wet tongue
to lick and glue
what he so kindly split in two;
but there’s not much difference
‘tween woe and you.

See, you eat of banquets,
of fruits and meat
and fish and scales
and scabs of eternity,
you bite through the straight lines
and seamless patterns,
you dance and bend
and devour to ascend
inside as many else,
and they unto you –
a cornucopia of food!
You think hollows can be pleased
and teased with sweet promises,
you can’t weave tones,
so you are an instrument,
you are stringed, and pulled,
caressed – it feels too good.
And I cannot decline the call as well,
I twitch and shudder
and can’t kill the need,
he whispers to my ear
Let’s feed, let’s feed
and I’m detained and bound
and I howl like an animal should.

I kneel and pray to god of lechery
in aphrodisiac vertigo
that beckons Love! Bleed! Dispel!

But like the sacred Orborous
I bite not of the world,
I sink the teeth
in my own flesh,
so happy that I could.


~ by Oloriel on April 11, 2014.

20 Responses to “The Banquet”

  1. I twitch and shudder

  2. Um, wow. The teensiest bit of editing would make this absolutely stellar. I’ll color you in cyanide and cherry, and you can color me impressed.

    • First of all,I would really like to thank you and commend you for mentioning the editing. Seems most folks try to avoid it to be some kind of “politicaly correct”, so I really want to thank you for the honesty!
      I am glad you enjoyed reading it and I feel msot honored you would partake on the cyanide that abounds here! 🙂

      • Well then… I shall release the kraken! Stanza 2, Line 4: I think you mean “off” rather than “of,” though I could be wrong. Stanza 2, Line 8: “your” instead of “you.” That’s it, really. Everything else is probably just as intended. Honestly I hate even bringing up corrections, I just get picky with poetry. My original comment still stands, this is an amazing poem.

      • Thank you very much for bringing it to my attention. I should revert back to writing in notebooks, with all the advance the technology is doing, it still fails to read my mind yet tries to speak for me.

  3. Oh sweet woe… thy debonair tale of deception has me feasting on my own flesh…
    Your words penetrate even the darkness of that death knot, to spew the color of red (carrying on the way it is, indulging all that prevails).. much more than it is sinful, it is painful. Or is it the other way round!?

    Your word-weaving is exemplary and the vividness of your tales… and the tale of these tales… always leave me thinking and dwelling in their effect.

    • Thank you very much HA, and your comment is beyond poetic and meaningful. I hope you enjoyed what I would classify as “happy writing” of my own!Yeah, I know, seriously lacks flowers that aren’t wilted 😀

  4. Twisted, dark and wonderful. Loved the Oroborous reference at the end. And that artist is amazing as well. I went to their deviantart page — you have quite an eye, darling — but then, you know that.

  5. Darkly delicious 😉

  6. fasting

  7. Here, nearing the bottom of the hill, my feet bleeding on rubble pavement and twisted glass shards, I find a fest in words and lines, coloured, flavoured within the deepest of wild dark cherry wines, a fine morbid writers table, to find myself seated at, being waited on while served six courses, upon fine cyanide laced platters, a delectable meal in choice indeed. Weary though I am, leaning here against a tropical breeze.

    Have missed reading here, so spending a little time catching up, cheers, top work.

    • I do humbly hope that the words and allegories you encoutered here have left you sated!

      • Above was the third poem I encountered reading aloud yesterday, so perhaps sated too relates to the combination of all three upon completion, but yes, completely satisfying reading the above, and each one, allegories and all.

  8. the only problem with me is the pic…why fucking sushi…

    killed it at the end…speechless…

Tell me something

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


Arts & Lit Collective

Shawn Kilroy Was Here

my life as an unknown musician



Darkness of His Dreams

Poetry & Prose by John W. Leys

she is not fragile

look what she has withstood

Green Not Hazel

one leaf, another, a blade of grass, a tree, a forest - a story


Poetry, short stories and idiosyncratic gobbledygook

Book Monkey

Book Reviews and Nature Walks

Silently Smouldering Words

Poetry and things like that

Otisak na displeju

Od izvora dva putića, do izvora samo jedan...


sketches of life and clips of dreams

Syl65's Blog

Poetry, creative writing and a desire to inspire..... Isaiah 40: 31 But they who wait upon the Lord will get new strength. They will rise up with wings like eagles. They will run and not get tired. They will walk and not become weak..

Clacks Header

A massively unofficial fan site to remember Sir Terry Pratchett

Poet's Parlor

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

%d bloggers like this: