The Rainist

The rainist is entombed by incense,
pigsmoke and ecstatic wailing—
the returning spirits, paperthin,
infact too thin too see, and
entering as carbon-black spectres
somewhere on the edge of one’s
mind’s eye return like jetsam from
another ritual and exact some lien of
pure torment from the natives
(our debts were paid in full and no
such agony is allowed).
The rainist’s magic, as though, it feels,
it could be no other away
appears like Satan’s clockwork—
vapour, grey phantom clouds like sea foam
swirling, expiring some tree-sweet essence
like pure ozone,
like soma,
or the smell of death, as though death were
pleasant, and the sound, heard by all,
of voices whispering, men specifically,
each arousing the other’s sense of
presence until the hut was filled with
spirits affirming their own existence
and the existence of the whole—
no words were made, more strained and
sibilant utterances one would call
noise if one would hazard to say that
silence weren’t the thing that
haunted us instead.
The voices stopped—we heard
and then the storm,
and then the flood began.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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