Editor’s note: It has been raining rejections in the Arbo-Verse lately. Since 2023 opened, I have had a short story collection rejected, a novella sent to the doldrums (maybe never to return?), plus I was rejected by the prestigious Passage Prize in all three categories, thus bringing my track record with that wonderful contest to a whopping 0-12. This is what it is like to be a writer, just in case you were curious. Speaking of failure, these two weird poems were rejected by the Passage Prize. I present them to you for three reasons: 1) The Obelisk could use some content diversity; 2) I seek judgement from the PVLP KVLT; and 3) well…I…uhm…forget. So, without further ado, here are two weird poems for your enjoyment.
Corpus Delicti
Long and lean fingers—
hungry and outstretched.
The accused, bereft of blood,
silently suffers the slings
of the ceremony’s conjurers.
Falsehoods and blasphemies
are leveled.
Accusations, like banners, unfurl
in the darkened atmosphere.
The basilica is the tomb.
All is a farce; all is comedy.
The punchline is prearranged.
Yet, the trial censures Creation
as much as man.
Their sentencing salivates for a soul.
The already deceased is doomed to die.
They lift him up again after the third day,
and commit his corpse to cremation.
Embers cannot mask the morbidity
of having a saint and a suicide
die like a pagan.
The Occultist, The Crown, and The Sea
The one who speaks to angels,
also speaks to the Queen.
A tongue most silver,
and heart most stout.
She, patient and aloof,
listens to his entreaties—
his alchemy
hidden in plain speech.
Of distant plantations he dreams.
Special vistas of Englishmen abroad,
with fields greener than Gloucestershire,
and skies bluer than Berkshire.
Her pale skin and red lips
tremble with trepidation.
Does not the crown to the south
desire as much and more?
Fear not, speaks the wizard,
for God and the sea
are with us
and under our feet.
A compact is made,
and a signature sealed.
Blood and thunder
and sigils portend
the coming conquest of Caliban.
From shore to shore,
white-on-red glory
for the kingdom of Christ
and the dreams of two—
daughter and son—
of Albion’s seed
and Poseidon’s bloom.
Well, then we are both members of the same exclusive club, The Frightening Rejects. I feel your pain, applaud your persistence and, what's more, I admire your work brother.