Shadowbathing in the Breeze

~ Iyan Igma

This mesa is mine to guard over
Despite all those the vortex might bring
In the hidden hollow they meet for worship
I chuckle each solstice, fall, and spring

For the hapless davians celebrate
A most spiritual intimacy
Opening themselves to be despoiled
In ways surpassing spirituality

The ecstasy of ravishing them
The frenzy burning through to flesh
The spasm, frothing, flagellation
The shrieks exploding from their chest

They are mine and love me
And so I permit the harlots to stay
But every so often a tender skeptic
Chances to come my way

Out in the night where you can see for miles,
Brittle grass festooned with agave clumps,
I set to follow them closely
Staring till they can’t deny chill bumps.

In panic I see them look around
But adjusted eyes cannot perceive
Superiors of the sort I am
Their minds invent horrors to believe

Animals stalking in the bushes
Or a psychopath poised to attack
Though I am stealthy following them,
Their heads keep swiveling back.

Fear, I can taste it delicious now,
For they know they’re being chased
Advancing, I dig my fingernails deep
Into their neck, they freeze in place

Shivering as a disembodied hand
Traces the curvature of their face
And their breath becomes visible.
I release them from this place

And follow them to their humble room,
A few manage to start to pray
Then, they notice how pitch the room has grown,
And I laugh their cares away.

I advance, my darkness more supreme
Than the night I’m basking in
Mortified stares and weeping eyes,
Then, they’re paralyzed victims

I sprawl across them, absorb their fear,
Soak into their body inch by inch
I pretended to wrestle for control,
And they’re too rigid to flinch

Trapped behind two startled eyes
And a brain about to stroke
I let the unbelieving wretches lie
Captive, oppressed, unable to choke

And I feel the fear rushing in
I sponge up their anxious brains
And just as soon as they think they’ll die
I leave them wondering if I’ll return again

All night they wait in sleepless horror
Eyes drawn through the window to the trees
Where the darkness warms my soulless ser
Shadowbathing in the breeze

Every Soothing Iniquity

~ Iyan Igma

With sin and darkness as my bedfellows
I rested trouble-free and calm,
And every soothing iniquity
Was my soul’s own healing balm.

With Satan as my comrade,
I had such faithful company.
My heart was ne’er sorrowed nor sad,
And I faced life courageously.

But when I tried to lie in faith
Amidst such Christian company,
My face grew long and my heart wan,
And there was naught to comfort me.

To Quote Bobby

~ Iyan Igma

Expletives but show ignorance,
No matter how great your disdain.
Show your linguistic incompetence,
And you show how small is your brain.

‘Tis finer far to belittle
And see them wrack their mind in pain
To just understand a little
Of your comment. They’ll go insane.

How much better to crush esteem
And never once raise your cool voice!
You’ll find their pain’s the sweetest dream,
Since anger’s no match for remorse.

“It’s a poor man that only can
Spell or say a word in one way.”
Fools can only insult a man
With just a handful of clichés.

Juvenile Lobotomy

~ Iyan Igma

He is exploring carefully,
Knowing he must act to be blest;
Giving his own lobotomy,
He searches with vigor and zest.

He doesn’t heed their vain protests
Or learn from their bad examples.
His cilia’s sweetly caressed;
He savours his freshest samples.

With what gusto and zeal he mines,
Looking for his golden treasures!
I rejoice at finding such signs
Life’s lived best for simple pleasures.

Hermits

~ Iyan Igma

Hermits can be such simple friends,
Low maintenance, and such godsends.
Don’t visit or call them on the phone,
But simply leave them all alone.
Then, your friendship will have no end.

The Bairn’s Vast Energy

~ Iyan Igma

Mothers rejoice we’re not full grown
When we call their small wombs our home;
Trimesters and delivery’d
Be more substantial misery.
But they do not see ‘neath the skin
That all their future gals and men
Are spirits long before mature
Who somehow manage to endure
Being stuffed inside cheeky dwarves—
Relieved when their small body morphs
And gives them some more room to stretch
So they have less cause to kvetch.
The spirit, being energy,
The soul’s source of vitality,
Finds that its power’s amplified
When in a wee form it abides.
Thus, kids have endless energy,
Giving us nostalgic envy.

My Comfy Placenta

~ Iyan Igma

The warm water sloshes slightly
As I adjust in my cramped place,
Unwilling to leave the security,
Since I don’t know what I shall face.

But something tells me I must go
Beyond my comfy placenta,
Since I control not even this;
My domain is an irredenta.

The water pours forth, forcing me
Into a new birth violently.
The “womb” and “tub” both end in “b”
And let me live complacently.

Worth Your Weight in Chocolate

~ Iyan Igma

You’re worth your weight in chocolate
(And double that in cacao)
Squared to infinity cubed
For each second starting now

Off into eternity,
How long I long you’ll be mine,
That’s roughly the potency
Of your love that I enshrine.

You flood me with chemicals
Like chocolate, and are sweet, too,
With just enough bitterness
That I fully savour you.

While You May

~ Iyan Igma

Enjoy the rain while you may
Before arthritis and joints conspire
To pressure you into misery
And set your weary limbs on fire.

Bathe your face in heaven’s dew
And dance amidst the angelic spittle
While you are young and vital yet
And your bones have not turned brittle.

Splash in puddles and play in mud
Ere propriety robs this fun from you,
And you become a boring grownup
That disdains joy and says, “Pooh, pooh.”

Flesh out your childhood with memories
That you may have wide smiles when old
Of dancing through the seasons
When drizzles made the air grow cold.

Wintry Days In Hell

~ Iyan Igma

I’ll suffer with you tomorrow,
And we can gnash our teeth and yell.
Nay, talk ye not of your sorrow,
For it’s rare that I feel this well.

Keep your burning and your brimstone,
And maybe next week I’ll join you.
But for now the tormentor’s gone,
And a cold breeze is slipping through.

I think I’ll take advantage of
Providence to wet my whistle.
Maybe I’ll even find a love
Who’s not gnawed down to the gristle.

Don’t think I’ll sit on my fanny,
The victim of my own fear’s spell,
For there are only so many
Of these rare, wintry days in hell.