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Rituals of Transformations

What Is It?
Rituals of Transformations
The Tenth Final Ritual
The Ritual of Chemistry

Poem by M A Shabasha


Come, O my loved one,
let’s dance outside the battlegrounds
and fling our bodies onto the bed of clouds.
Far away from honor, far away from 
the bread with curses assigned,
the twisted kind of bread.
Far away from values.
Values that deprive us
of the ecstasies of sin,
of musing afar from the dwelling
for which we blasted the yearnings;
desires of the soul,
and exchanged exiles
and fabricated kisses.

Come so we lunge and leap
across the open cities
of binders and statues.
Let's hurt and inflame,
with whips of whim and caprice,
the memorabilia of days
and render into silence
the neighs of our suitcases,
the neighs of imagining.
Come so I disseminate
an acre of landmines
between your bosoms
and the fingers of the moguls.

Come so I pass it not a lonely night
or set my memory on fire
with salt and apparitions
and disregarded friends.

Come so we lean on songs
that are as yet remaining,
incubate like birds
the cultivated grapes
until they hatch of wine.
O, Lest we be disrupted
by the shriek of brass of
towering invaders,
away from the dust
away there!
Away!
For I will not abandon to the bitter mud
a drop of my blood,
a drop of my sweat
or be a martyr,
or sell my soul,
except to the one
who promises me eternity.
I will not dedicate to my infeasibilities
a question-sized grandson
to bless them on the night
of the glorious dance
at my corpse.
I won't spend my mother’s bread,
incumbent on my shoulders,
to combat the dampness of prison cells.
I will not expose my chest,
the seat of my generosity,
the seat to your blooming fingers,
to a bullet or a badge,
for I am the son of sinful clay,
I am the son
of the scandalous clay and the question.
I am the son of bare naked Eve,
the mistress of the devil.

I am the Adam son descended from God’s balcony,
strutting in berry leaves and disobedience.
Adam.
The Adam that was.
The Adam that never did
any good to ….parents,
Nor visited a graveyard.
Or sang a hymn for a nation.

I am the son of Noah,
afloat on gaping death with a bundle of creatures
and those begotten from his sacred back
of progeny and desires.

I am my mother’s son
pledged to wheat, bread and prayer.
I am my father’s son
the bottom of the jungle, I am.
The tip of combustion,
I fall from the sperm of pastures
to bargain bottoms for Justice
in the New World Order and withdraw.
I am the butt of burning,
the first of pebbles.
I am the god of wine,
embroidered with rocks,
on the mountain foot.
I feed up the hungry
and bring to the gold spikes
the good tidings of the burning
of the last of the scythes.
I am the first of dying, the last of living
I am the septum separating
being from nothingness
And I am the question.

So come.
Oh come!
to set apart for the naked tops
the neigh of yearning as it is crowned
in the quietude of weeping
before we delve into riding
the horseback of elation,
before we delve into muttering.
To carry out the ritual of fecundation
on the last Mt. Judi
while staring at the world
as it drowns in sterility,
in the ordinance of chemistry.

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