Czernobog the Black

His body dissolves into a cancer
blackness that clouds the sky
he smells of turpentine and dirt
and swallows the city in a gulp
of clashing thunderheads, I fly
far to the looming horizon, but
Czernobog reaches tendrils through
skyscrapers, roots himself into
vertebrae, strips ribs from men –
soon they are left with no guts
just spines their shirts hang
dull off disappeared torsos,
he is giant as a nuclear blast
but instead of light, darkness,
he coalesces into sharp planes
the riptide of his transformation
knocks me out, I awaken paralyzed
in his velvet bed, poisoned, near
comatose, and his dolls have stars
for brains, he paints my lips red,
dresses me in a bell of a white
ballgown, and as I dance with
him on trembling feet, at odds
with the Deathless King, dead
crooning violins and dry tongues
around us as they rattle their
bones, I know there is no escape
from Black Gods, just stalemate


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