My Personal Crone, and the Blue Monk

my personal crone

Scissor Dance: My Personal Crone



At 3 o’clock in the morning,

the blue monk wakes up,

and lights a lamp

in the whitewashed stone box

of his cell.


the blue monk leans nearsightedly close

to the page of the incunabula

left open on the slope

of his book littered desk.


The blue monk makes owl eyes

at the miniscule scribbled

in the wide margin,

graffito of one of the book’s

former lovers,

and he gives the page a little kiss,

sucking on an omega

like a bone for its marrow.


The blue monk licks the page

for he likes the taste of vellum

and begins to read.


The blue monk feeds his eyes

to the ants crawling off the page,

the heavy book held against his face

like a pillow, like the dreamed bosom

of a succubus.  His Prussian nose

snorts up the musty pismire

like cocaine, as the long sentences pass

like an army crossing

the last bridge over the Rhine.


The blue monk takes the book

to bed with him, and falls asleep

in the middle of a sentence.


Nodland uber alles.


The blue monk has no need of flagellation;

the cat-o-nine-tails hangs unused

on the same nail as his crucifix;

a silken counterpane is not too smooth

to gnaw the naked mumble

of his dreaming body;

a goose down pillow is not too soft

to kindle the slurry

of indistinct syllables

drooling from his mouth

like smoldering goaf

to scorch his cheek.

He flays instead his tongue

with wine stored ten thousand years

or more in the catacombs

of his great and numerous family,

the fat harlequin tongue promised a taste

of amontillado,

while under the dark habit

a silver trowel is poised to slap brick

with wet mortar.

The blue monk begins to snore.


The shades of his ancestors

draw close and join in coyote chorus

as he gibbers like a midway geek,

his open mouth like a tosspenny target

for rube philistines.  Slack jawed,

eyeless in Gaza, word shorn Samson

gobbles his one vowel,

the vowel not chiseled into the hieroglyphs,

the vowel left out of Torah by Moses,

the vowel the Queen of Sheba

brought on her lips to Solomon.


The blue monk exhales the warm vowel,

and it floats like a bubble

of mutagenic fire

over the unfluttered pages

of the book’s saliva stained vellum.


The blue monk wakes up.  Blinks.

Begins to read.



4 responses to “My Personal Crone, and the Blue Monk

  1. Both the scissor dance and the poem are old yada previously posted on the old Tent Show at Salonblogs, but together the pieces go well with the up way past bedtime post I wrote in the wee hours this morning.

  2. Pingback: tinydoctor's status on Tuesday, 23-Jun-09 19:18:05 UTC -

  3. Oh lovely and just smack-on pertinent here in my person and persona, wonderful work all ’round. Thanks, D.

  4. Nice pair of my faves.

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