The fever of Amalgam’s holy rage
has now become a warm and quilty faith;
the gods who trampled devils on the stage
are now a single, silent, subtle wraith.
Tag Archives: Poetry
A charter from a desert city’s school
refused to mark Amalgam as a town;
he swore it was an ancient, honored rule
that nothing on a stream was written down.
A robin roosted in the cherry eaves
atop the tower of Amalgam’s Hall,
and made its nest of bones and holly leaves,
securing it with mud against the wall.
A blanket-weaver from the eastern hills
sold forty quilts for three Amalgam jacks:
He did not charge an extra for the frills,
but dropped the price by one to counter tax.
The minty taste Amalgam’s root mondray
holds in its flesh grows stronger as it dries:
a cool but bitter flavor that they say
can soothe a burn or kill a dozen flies.
Twelve hours made the old Amalgam day:
first three to warn the people of the Sun,
six more to work under Its fiery sway,
and three to feel the slavery was done.
The pink-white heart of Allien di Cambrose,
preserved by pale Amalgam’s Nectine monks,
displayed on Summer solstice with a rose,
is said to have been made of swine-throat chunks.
A poison seeped into Amalgam’s well
that bit our throats and made our faces swell,
then left us with a fear of what we drink
and cleaning of the well on which to think.
Twice to the town I named Amalgam came
a man who had a face and yet no name.
His conversation stung us like a bee
and yet he left us healthier than he.