Voices from the Attic, Attila’s Hut (feat. Definitive Content)

Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, March 24, 2013 Under: Poetry


Night fabric draped across her bosom like a shawl

her bedside light confiscated ohms
traded them for dusty spool feathers that
quaintly suffocated her sleeping quarters
like a primitive aerosol of ultimate judgment
Father was outside of the tent, somewhere
probably discussing lordships
or trimming the whiskers of God-spiders
his “away on errands” meant perilous quests
and so she accepted his neglect
consciously knowing that her identity,
the daughter of viperous barbarian king
was an out right beacon for those ghoulish cold clutches
midnight assassins, the accursed tendrils
of the devil in the dusk, and his smarmy counterparts
counting the days to bum-rush her innocence

Her knuckles, millipede tarts coated in crustacean sugars
bones within them verging on opal being squeezed
sapphiric blue, as her jeweled eyes passed over the room
raising her head from the pillow, raucous, melodic moans
invaded her serene space, rapped at sleep’s castle door
with thorned hatchets, zirconium hammers, haunted truncheons
sending the shivers up her spine without a return address
she tasted lavender, but suspected death spice

The strange sounds from the veiled ceiling
spread about the hut intensely, increased in volume
mithril tongues weaved war sewn platitudes
cursed, lamented in coarse tones from dead languages
dead to her -- she couldn’t translate their sudden dialects
grey women, sobbing visages huddled in an earth spire
They held hands like spirits sharing memories
and then she caught wind of their grudge
they recited Ballads from the Forty City States, for Mourning Mothers
She then remembered the words of King Attila,

“Diplomacy is a nightmare…it’s best to let it rest, dear.”



Def Con:

The Skins Keep Him Warm

Attila knows, darkness is the natural state of almost
Everyplace.
Out beyond his hut
Yonder is the yellow sun
It shone on every-face he ever watched die.
A conqueror never shares trade secrets
For if they worked once he will not doubt
That they would work again.
But in his hut ;
He may be given to hearing voices
And if he converses in whispers
Recounting deaths
(his small regrets)
Like a drunk explaining all his scars;

Who would I be -
To try and stop him.

I have been called crazy on occasion
Though never in my memory – stupid.
I say this, often feeling stupid
Myself.

Attila wields a studded club
A mongrel on the hunt
The skins of things he's killed
Keep him warm.
If anything is in his blood
That makes him good at what he's done -
Historians and geneticists can hope
The trait, even when innate
Spreads thin.

In his hut
There is a roaring
A call to all who've given up wondering
What it might be like -
To smash a skull
And done the real thing.
He hears it every-night
But somehow
Sleeps soundly.

That
I think
Is what
Separates
Us.

In : Poetry 



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