She walks, the queen of Hell,
so lightly. Too lightly, much too softly;
like little scorching flames, her feet touch
and then pass on, but leave a print;
a white, burnt place upon the under
part of Hell, where strolled the queen.
The print aays here; here her foot touched
and touching, left my body.
Flying before her coming are the fears,
the fearing, and the damned
those uncourageous souls for which
Hell was designed in the beginning,
but now has proved too hot, too fine,
too full of beauty and strange life
that burst the bonds of death and there took root.
They're not at home in Hell, those souls,
and neither is the lonely, burning queen.
Slowly she passes by, those searing feet
leave little twisting curls of smoke behind.
The fat woman's hair was red, like a mole's fur, or a red mouse. Her skin
was white, a too-soft white, and a slight flush wavered like a pale flame
over her face. Her lips were heavy and dark, parted and panting a little,
her white teeth glittered, too small they were, little needles in the
center, larger white fangs in the corners of her mouth. Her hair moved
strangely, that soft furry hair that called for stroking. She stood
just beyond sleep, it's curtains parted and held in her hands, ready
to step through if you asked her. She was a dream, or was she?
He was going to her.
I have looked upon a form that lies
chained and chained and chained again
beneath the tower lid of hell--
under the skirting hem--
where flame trees blow their blossoms
and twist their serpentine selves into endless arabesques
of evil patterning significant.
I saw the form--
the strength that lies imprisoned
the hate that lies in wait
the love that lies unwanted
the limbs that are unused
the face that is no face
the hands that grasp no clay
the feet that do not tread
the head, the holy howling head
the lips that taste not water or love or food
the nostrils smell the pit
the ears that hear the hell and only hell.