“Black Hymeneal” Reboot

My first poetry collection, “Black Hymeneal”, is back on track. It will not be the beautiful book I envisioned so long ago, but it will at least get out into the world. It shall not feature any specific artwork. Unfortunately, my friend Michele has some pressing familial responsibilities which have taken precedence (understandably) over helping to complete the artwork for the book, so I am going to just continue without it at this point. Perhaps someday we can collaborate on a portfolio of the completed artwork she did for the book, if the collection proves to be successful enough to warrant that. Her lovely artwork deserves to be seen, and I hope some day it will be. I appreciate the hard work she did and the help she gave me in showing me the ropes of the publishing business. I shall never forget her kindness.

The table of contents for the new book has changed, since I have decided to pull a few pieces for another planned collection of song lyrics for my old band, The Dark Young. More on that after I get “Black Hymeneal” into the world.

The new selection is as follows:

01. Manurog
02. Hell-flower
03. Thalia
04. Witch’s Tit
05. Sor Maria and the Devil, Luzbel
06. Krampus
07. Manqueller Manque
08. Moribond
09. Skull in an Ice Cream Cone
10. HPL RIP
11. Broceliande
12. Threnody
13. Black Hymeneal

I have already begun retyping the manuscript and adding new introductions for the poems. My goal was to be ready to publish by my 50th birthday in August. We’ll see if I can make the deadline. Keep your eyes on future posts with updates.

Walpurgis Night

Tonight is Walpurgis Night, named after the English Medieval missionary, St. Walpurga, who first brought Christianity to the Germanic people. Her feast day is May 1st, and the eve of the day, April 30th, is often celebrated with dancing and reveling. Somewhere along the line this reveling became identified with the Witch’s Sabbath and Walpurgisnacht, as it is known in Germany, became a night of ill omens and devilry.

Sometime in the early 90’s I wrote a prose piece entitled “Walpurgis Night”, which was inspired by 2 things: one was a stencil someone had sprayed on the wall of my favorite pizza joint on Newbury Street in Boston, which read “Walpurgis Night” in black letters. I always assumed it was a local Goth or Metal band, but brief online research has revealed nothing that I can find. I was later to find, after the fact however, that one of my favorite bands, Black Sabbath, had originally intended their song “War Pigs” to be called “Walpurgis”. Both video and audio documentation of an early version of the song featuring a more lyrical emphasis on the black mass imagery has been available for some time now for public consumption. They had even decided to call the album “Walpurgis”, but the record executives thought it sounded too Satanic, so they toned down the devil imagery and made the newly titled song “War Pigs” into more of an anti-war tune. Of course, when they came up with “Paranoid”, they scrambled to promote that instead as the single and the new title of  the album, the artwork for which still played off of the “War Pigs” theme and confused a lot of stoners back in the day.

The other inspiration, which will be apparent to anyone who is familiar with it, is Bram Stoker’s short story, “Dracula’s Guest”, which was an excised early draft chapter from the original novel.

“Walpurgis Night” is far from my best work, and a little hokey in retrospect, some 25 or so years down the line, but it is an indication of where my creative writing would eventually go.

And so, without further ado, I present to you my prose poem “Walpurgis Night”…

“Walpurgisnacht” by Johannes Praetorius (1668).

Your friend is a fool, and shall die as such. You Englishmen, so arrogant! Where is the precious Crown for him now? His impressively  untainted lineage will mean nothing to the wolves. All blood tastes the same to them, blue or otherwise; but that is the least of his worries.

He would indeed be fortunate if it were only the wolves whom he met with.  For there are myriad other creatures which shall be roaming the lonely roads tonight, far more horrible than they. The dead shall rise and the witches shall be reveling in their sabbats and rutting rituals, and the Light Bearer shall hold sway.

Not a one of  my men would go out on this of all nights to search for any man, no matter what the price. For you see, tonight is a night for prayers, garlic rubbing, and door bolting. Tonight my friend, is Walpurgis Night!

Skull in an Ice Cream Cone

Skull in an Ice Cream Cone comes in 13 flavors including disabusal, despair, and doom.

Toppings of mingled tears and lifeblood ooze down the bony pate in delectable fashion, dripping across nullified sockets, and pooling around pearly teeth, lovingly nestled in a crunchy waffle cone.

Sprinkled atop the crest are tiny crumbs of respite and joy, which are few and fleeting.

Guaranteed to all, everyone eventually gets a taste regardless of age, sex, race or station; proportionally meted out in accordance to one’s fate as determined by our lovely scoop girl, Moira.

And, for a limited time only, some lucky folks may find a shiny treat betwixt those immobile ivories–like an obol for Kharon, to ensure safe passage across the river Styx!

Won’t you have a lick? I hear it’s to die for…

“Skull in an Ice Cream Cone” illustration by Michele Bledsoe.

Black Hymeneal

This is the title piece from my upcoming book. I got the initial inspiration for it from an offhanded comment in an episode of the New Addams Family where Gomez and Morticia were reminiscing about the first time they met. I then began to wonder what their wedding must have been like, so I began to write what was intended to be a romantic/humorous description of the wedding ceremony but it got dark very quickly and I realized that I was writing about something more serious. I then changed the name of the bride from Morticia to Azraelle, a feminized version of the Angel of Death, and thus was born one of the most prominent figures from my oeuvre. She is also featured in a triptych consisting of the prose poems “The Toilette of Azraelle, the Litch Queen”, “A-Hunting She Will Go”, and “Good Morrow, Azraelle Undercroft”, all of which may be found on this blog. So, without further ado, I present to you my wedding song for Death, “Black Hymeneal”…

Work in progres: Michele Bledsoe’s illustration for “Black Hymeneal”, the finished version of which will be featured in my book of the same name.

Azraelle, my moribund bride, gowned in ebon lace

Down the funest aisle you stride, with an exequial pace

Niveous hands let fingers slip, with sharpened ruby nails

Like little bloodied arrow-tips, which have my heart impaled

Your fine fair bosom does not heave, with movements to respire

But moves my will, in twain, to cleave, as my heart would to expire

Trailing from your muddy feet, your sombre bridal train

Sullied in your brief retreat through graveyards in the rain

Tangled in its filigree are tokens from the grave

Supported by, with impish glee, a grotesque Lilim babe

Behind your veil of spider’s webs, your sable tresses flow

In rivulets, about you ebbs away from your dark brow

Peeling back gossamer mesh, your eyes aglow, like gleeds

Burning into my weak flesh to my wan heart, which bleeds

Your crimson labia do stretch into a hungry smile

Enticing me, a poor fey wretch, with lewd and baneful wiles

Eagerly, I give to you, my last remaining breath

And as my lips avow “I do” receive your kiss of Death

Fundraiser for “Black Hymeneal”

It’s finally started! The fundraiser for my upcoming collection of poetry, “Black Hymeneal” has begun and you too can contribute! Follow the link below and it will take you to my pitch video and all of the pertinent information on how to contribute to the publication of this book.

https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/black-hymeneal-by-manuel-paul-arenas#/story

Each book will be a hardcover, with a full color dust jacket, and will be fully illustrated throughout by artist Michele Bledsoe.

Work in Progress: the portrait of me by Michele Bledsoe, which will be used for the cover of the book.

Poems featured in the book are as follows:

01) Manurog

02) My Friend Boris

03) Gargoyle

04) Manqueller Manque

05) Skull in an Ice Cream Cone

06) Thalia

07) Threnody

08) The Golem of Prague

09) Flower of Evil

10) Night Hag

11) Witch’s Tit

12) Sor Maria and the Devil, Luzbel

13) Black Hymeneal

Work in progress: some of the images which will be detailed and used to illustrate the book. Images featured here are for Black Hymeneal, Skull in an Ice Cream Cone, Gargoyle, and Manurog.

 

We have been allotted 40 days in which to raise this money and have only 35 days left as of this posting. Remember, no contribution is too small, and even $5 contributions can qualify you for one of our many cool perks; so, reserve your copy today!

Luvian’s Pelt

Part two of the Greenwood Manse Poetry Cycle. For more on that, go here: https://mannysbookofshadows.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/the-greenwood-manse-poetry-cycle/

Note to the reader: “Luvian” has one made-up word, “ululame” which I created to fit the rhyme. It is a combination of “ululation” and “lamentation”.

Luvian’s Pelt

When the inclemency of winter, with its blustery weather, makes it impossible for me to go outside

I then become dispirited, for I am forced, reluctantly, to spend my days inside

Excepting on the rare occasion when a-calling I do go to my favorite haunt by far

To the enigmatic and ancient abode of its analogous matron, my beloved Grandmamma

I’ve told you once, or so I believe, of my Great Aunt Lucretia and her ebony-posted bed

But have I mentioned my Great Uncle Luvian, who donned a pelt which made him  lose his head?

It all began when my errant uncle came home after a year’s excursion in France

He brought with him a woman, a Mademoiselle Grenier, at whose comely visage he would stare, as if in a trance

They would spend their days in bookshops which were shunned by most of the town

Purchasing grimoires and sundry treatises by scribes of nefarious renown

When nightfall came, they could not be found in or around the estate

Till it was rumored by some that they were in consortium with brokers from beyond the Seven Gates

When Luvian, confronted by all, was asked about where they had been

He’d simply smile and look towards his wife with her circean eyes so green

The shepherds would come round complaining of slain or missing sheep

Great Uncle told them to have more care and vigilance over their keep

The talk got hotter by the day, though none accused him yet outright

Though when they found the riven remnants of a boy, it set the town alight

It seems a canid creature of truculent bent rent the child asunder

And after opening his unfledged chest, his sappy heart did plunder

That night, the townsfolk stormed the house, demanding to see their lord

They found him gone and so took to the woods with pitchfork, gun and sword

Out in the umbrage of the night, they searched with torches aflame

Following the sound of an unholy thing howling in ululame

They soon found the source of the stentorian yowls lamenting as in keen

The death of its mate, whose incarnadine bowels flowed as in a stream

The lycanthrope turned round to stare, his jaws with gore imbrued

Resignedly accepting the retribution which ensued

They smote his head in one fell swoop and shot him through the heart

With bullets forged from molten silver, swaged from a crucifix part

When his corpse fell to the ground his lupine form had changed

Into the shell of Luvian, though this they thought not strange

He bore no clothes save for a belt made from a werewolf’s hide

For which he sold his immortal soul, to be collected when he died

So it was that ravens came at the moment of his death

To claim his soul and bear it to the land of fiery depth

They took as well the sullied soul of his sorceress wife

Who he had slain for starting him on this wicked life

But in the hubbub of his death, an agile hand unseen

The pelt, had taken, leaving no clue as to who it might have been

Now I hold it in my hands to place it round my waist

Where Luvian failed, a weak-willed man, a woman shall take his place

To do the job that should have made his consort-teacher proud

So she’ll be goaded then to rise and shirk her ancient shroud

To share with me her secret rites and knowledge long retained

Which Luvian could not comprehend and proved to be his bane

And all of this I owe to she, who heedful of its special powers

Pulled the pelt to ass to me, her clever budding flower

My Grandmama shall not regret the choice which she has made

Of making a shape-shifting priestess out of a fledgling maid

 

The Were Wolves

The Bed

• Part one of the Greenwood Manse Poetry Cycle. For more on that, go here: https://mannysbookofshadows.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/the-greenwood-manse-poetry-cycle/

  The Bed

  In my Grandmama’s house, there is a room decorated in the most sublimely under stated way;

  and it is in this room that I customarily retire to, when I occasion to stay

  Within this quaintly curious room of quiet disquietude, there is an ebony-posted bed,

  which is my favorite place, at the day’s end, on which to rest my head.

  It is an old family heirloom, which belonged to my Great Aunt Lucretia.

  She spent the last six months of her life in it, wasting away from consumption and dementia.

  It all started when she lost her lusty young lover to the sickness known as anemia.

  She became listless, wan, and her behavior grew quite unseemlier.

  She slept till late in the day, spent all of her time, and took meals in her bed;

  as she pored over many a tome of eldritch lore, and was called upon by many self styled communers-of-the-dead.

  As her illness progressed, they put her into trances to see if it could be divined what her ailment might be.

  But mesmerism was indeed not the answer, and she deteriorated not just in body now, but also mentally.

  She commenced to cry out in the middle of the night, and when asked what was wrong

  would rant about shroud-clad revenants, with eyes of fire,breath so foul, and eye-teeth sharp and long.

  These stories were met with much consternation and disbelief,as she was assumed to have gone mad.

  But when she spoke of having been made love to by the cadaver of her beloved, they destroyed all of the occult books she had.

  They say she died on the eve of May Day, and a ghastly shriek was said to have reverberated throughout the household.

  They found her in her bed, wide-eyed, bloodless, and in her fist–something clenched in a death-grip hold.

  Well, after some time, when rigor mortis gave way, they found what that something had been.

  It was apparently a torn ear, a right ripe ol’ piece of carrion, all putrescent and green.

  But that was long ago, and what need have I to fear old ghosts and undying loves?

  For I am a smart young lass; virginal, pious, and pure as the snow white dove.

  I say my prayers each night, and although I may indulge in a good ghost story now and again,

  I steer clear of such writ of the like which my aunt treasured so and helped to drive her insane.

  So when she comes to my bedside in the wee hours, with her cadaverous visage and sepulchral breath,

  I recite some old psalms, and clutch the crucifix, which rests on my young tender breast.

  And when she finally leaves, a-hissing and spewing curses foul, with her one-eared lover in tow,

  I whisper my grateful thanks to God, let out a nervous chuckle, pull up the sheets, and dream about the evening’s show.

  

  Image of a Victorian bed which approximates what Lucretia’s crib might have looked like.