Poe in New Idria

Poe in New Idria

Vulture’s drilling claw,
hands as filthy as sin.
Sharp cinnabar hills.
The mine. Just an ugly maw.

From icy air, entropy.
Treasure! Swigging Old
Rabbit Brandy, our hero
Rules souls with mercury.

The shafting hole dark as hell
Alone he toils in landscape
Pitiful but for
Some dank weed’s whiskey smell.

Earth yields strong as clay
Then a rumble he might be imagining.
‘Quake country, this.
Unaware, he prays

His mind has now a stillness
From within or from
Without. He can not tell for
Certain if his mouth’s fullness

Can be likened to
A shout. His wishes are for
Naught. This fire storms
With unjustly spiteful blue

Pulls entrails. Twists them tight.
The heat quicksilver,
Unbearable deep inside.
A grave gives such light.

Hands ,eyes, lashes, tongue, his name!
Shoulders, throat ,ribs, lungs, scrotum,
A conflagration.
Yet no movement seen, nor flame.

Death not desire
This fantastic heat proclaims
A standing phantom looks down
Ghost hands to admire.

Poe’s dead eyes see betrayal
Purgatory still! he cries.
His fate to dig unending
Eternity hates a liar.