SATYRDAY summons
On Puzzle Poems and Trance-Writing
All of my poetry is ritual poetry, written in trance. It isn’t something I sit down to “compose” in the ordinary sense — it comes through, half-breathed, half-heard, carried by rhythm and flame. One of the ways this trance takes shape is through what I call puzzle poems. I have a habit: whenever I meet a word I don’t know, I look it up instantly in my dictionary app and mark it as a favorite. Later, in trance, those words slip back into my hand like forgotten keys. I weave them in, not forcing meaning, but allowing sound, symbol, and cadence to guide me.
The eerie thing is how they assemble themselves. Words that should clash instead align. Phrases that begin as play end up speaking uncanny truths. It’s as if the poem already exists somewhere else and I am simply uncovering it, one word at a time.
SATYRDAY Summons is one such puzzle poem. Its skeleton is hidden in plain sight: each stanza leans on a dominant consonant, and together those letters spell SATYRDAY. This acrostic spine is part of the ritual — a summoning structure, a frame for trance to pour into. The result is playful and feral, erotic and oracular. A word-game that is not a game at all, but an invocation.
So read it not as mere verse, but as ritual: syllables as sigils, consonants as incantations, sound as spell.
SATYRDAY summons
silky wet Satyrday sloops
skulls scrying a scarlet scion
slaking sensual, seraphic coops
smiting a subversive, sexy lion
amply after Ariadne's altar
adept anthem's avid abode
aptly ablaze after a'Psaulter
asserts an adorned ascension node
trusted tart thrusting into temple
tantalizing trysting talis thrones
twisting tangled tunics is a simple
temptation for the skull and bones
your Yeshuan yo-yo yank
yesteryears Yuletide yuck
yowling, "Yowsa! Yoke the tank!"
yare yes-yelper as we fuck
reckoning rosary, radiantly ravishing
riftborn rawkus rhapsodic rise
ruby rebel radiates root dervishing
raw, revenant riddle's disguise
dig daunting dalliance dicks
dip Dionysian dervishing dens
door: darkling druidess licks
Dragon of Dragons rides Styx pens
an Avalonian aesir awe
abyssal anomaly: BLACK WITCH MOTH
arcane ardor, is all we saw
aiming add asking arc; a draw
yonder yoni smells of yore
yearningly yepping yip of yew
yelling in yesterday's yew pour
yet, yezidi yawning at the pew
[[[inhale immortal inferno
illuming instinctual Ibex
isomorphic, igniting, "Buongiorno!"
interregnum initiatrix]]]
Oh, and one last spark: I had a good chuckle when a couple of RSS subscribers fled after my post on “Traps for Empire’s Children.” Maybe they thought I could see their names through the feed (newsflash: I can’t), or maybe the mirror was too sharp for comfort. Either way — if you can’t stand the heat, best to stay out of the fire. To those who remain, my thanks. You already know the flame isn’t here to stroke egos. It’s here to consume what can’t endure and illuminate what can.
♪ “Jump in the Line” by Harry Belafonte ♪
Next post (“FF>>End of Empire”) will be October 13. The rhythm is sacred.