Le Mysterieux Carnival

~ le mysterieux carnival: queered halloween ~

Hyacinth Noir’s pre-premier issue celebrating Le Mysterieux Carnival on 6 October 2012, with themes of whimsical and macabre queerness in Halloween

Lycanthropy, by Zendrix Berndt

His jaw unhinging

Give me the death crack of his spine

Whispering shafts of midnight

Moonlight

Give me the shoots of bamboo tongue

Cross-haired cloudy and toe-curling menace

Malice

Make these ebony walls ooze sweat

Pour sinister swirling silver streaks

Spilling humid hunger for

Touch

As a cathedral shredding the nocturnal shroud clawing

Collapsing

Bodies imploding

Pelvis disjointed and aching with

Nightshade and wolf’s bane

Hemlock and hymnals

Too rich for even the organ to play

Tune too heavy for even the organism to carry

Organ

Heartache

Cardiac arrhythmia

Irregular syncopation

Organic orgasm opens the mouth

The fanged jowls creaking in lacteal howls

Drink him in

There can only be one predator tonight

He an anomaly, a mirage, a shadowed visage veiled in twinkling vespers

Tear the faun flesh into masticated manhood folds

Forgiveness lurks in the twinge

Little Death

He is change, he is no good, he is abomination

Coarse razor talon teeth twist forked fingers

He is wolf, he is man, he is monster

Rip me into the pieces of ecstasy that paint his sky a darker blood moon bloom hue

Becoming the beast beneath the beating

I am changing, I am no good, I am abomination

Soft naked lips locked curling smile smouldering cinnamon

Drink me in

I am wolf, I am man, I am monster

Make me his insides; my own impure and infernal

Fan the flaming legs fan folded fully furnace flaring feeling fleeting forest fire fragrance

Flakes of humanity sink deep into the soiled sheets

Paper

Make me write, this creature

Cultivating, collecting, accumulating, within

Werewolf writing about him breaking

Me

Jaw unhinging

Silhouette against the man-skin drum-moon

(bio.  Zendrix Berndt is an emerging multi-racial gay poet.  Born and raised in Kansas City, Missouri, he is currently a college student working towards becoming a successful multi-talented artist. He seeks to broaden the world’s understanding of all minority peoples and challenge the minds of today’s youth through the arts)

October 22, 2003. 11:55 pm, by Michelle Kopp

Cold coffee poured fresh in the morning

A New Orleans killer targeting women in
virginal white corsets.
They are lying and lead fruitless lives
sleeping with vampires whose seed devours.

She opened her bloody legs to God

A woman sketching naked bodies
across a canvas of blood while
her lover is writing poetry of
death and loss and pain.

Holiday whores swallow seven white seas

Silver dragons encountering elves with
arrows and bows of glistening bone.
The world they are fighting for is
crimson with blood, obsidian with darkness.

Blood pooled at her head, her chest, and again at her stomach

Mortal Gods walking among us
and she will know what it
will feel like to be fucked by them.

Lasting mark — a bloody palm against white wall, a rotting foetus

Horrific video games she cannot bear playing
Freddy’s claws, Jason’s machete
and an atrocious chainsaw massacre
they are honouring with a movie.
What lives are worth remembering if
mass multimedia corporations aren’t
reaping from the profits of death and blood?

God recreated Adam a wife because Lillith was feministic

And the poet sits while
her lover sketches Inuit clothes
because she enjoyed the carpenter’s tale.

(bio. Michelle Kopp is an overworked graduate student and part-time writer in Saskatchewan, Canada.  Her creative non-fiction work has recently appeared in The Diverse Arts Project and Up On The Prairies)

The Craft, by Richard Ballon

I have an ember, soft and green,
that lights this windblown palace.
An urn for stars, a cup
to share your mouth, only at my word.

I shall stand and strike the spark.

The flint skips a beat.
The dry leaves crack,
as an unwelcome wind
cools the stone.
In the palm of my hand
its lacklustre eye
steals the shine
of my own.

– Lock the door, I say. Something is amiss.

But it is you by the door,
before I could weave the condition,
the refrain.

– Don’t touch that cup, I say.

You reply with a voice
so weak, so timid,
I need you now.
You say with my voice,
I need you now,
and drink for us.

The flint turns to putty
in my hand.

What magic this love,
as the urn gives birth
to a new constellation

(bio.  Richard Ballon has had poetry published in: Social Anarchism, St. Anthony Messenger, Changing Men, Onionhead, Fellowship in Prayer, Fag Rag, Visions International, The Haight Ashbury Review, Poetpourri,  Zuzu’s Petals, The Lilliput Review and many other literary journals.  He has had monologues published in The Caterpillar Chronicles and The Good Ear Review. The Estrogenius Festival included two of his monologues in their 2008 Collection. Richard’s theatre work in NYC  has been at The Estrogenius Festival, Stage Left’s: Women at Work, MamaDrama, and Left Out Festivals, EAT’s One Man Talking, One Woman Standing. Other work at Universal Theatre, Provincetown, Devanaughn Theatre, Boston, Dylan Thomas Festival, Chicago, Walking the Wire Festival, Iowa City, Inspirato Festival, Toronto, Black Box Festival, Honolulu, ArtHotel, Montreal, Asphalt Shorts, Kitchener. He is a member of the Dramatist’s Guild)

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