The Collected Poetry

According to Viper, Chapter 1: The Sacrificing of the Doors

Shall pile and break the dusty human frame.

For here is limbo made of sand,

Here is Heaven made of ice,

And Hell of glass.

The sun's enough to drive anyone mad.

So banish the sun from the land, O master!

King Narmer would be better pleased,

To wave his hand and wash the light,

To steady his hand and feed the light,

To journey ever towards the place,

Where light is flesh; there a conqueror

like him shall be welcomed.

Before we sacrifice the doors,

Gather near the white coffin.

This is strange, this is strange.

This is inexplicable.

You, you, you, you, you, you.

Henu, henu. O green skin. Dua.

I am thy kinsmen.

I mourned at Taui-Rekhti

What belongeth to me that will not be inheritance?

What owneth I that is not on loan?

Who loveth me who will not die?

What sayeth I that will be remembered?

Do I have a legacy?

The heir of Keb, the sovereign at Abtu,

Claimed that in waiting for the coming,

That descendent of his will hold the rudder,

of the boat of the world. On which all our hopes are stored.

Be seated at the right hand of reason,

whose beating wings think rhythmically

of seasons.

The 72 conspirators,

Could not divide the 30 tetradrachms.

No, not even to pay for the cedars of Lebanon,

The white coffin.

When Osiris marched,

Past three cataracts of the Iteru,

Then those dancing girls who

Warmed his heart before the contest,

Did weep and ritually wail.

And carrying the Tamarisk on his back

The eldest son of Geb underwent decay.

Begotten Shabti,

Vulgar clay replete with Ka,

Sculpture carved by virgin.

The Speaker of Words, The Object of Words, and the Sound.

The Hidden One, the Silent One, The Door from Sound to Silence.

From Sound to Silence without change.

To be changeless is to be deathless.

These are the doors we sacrifice.

We lay them on the altar

The fertile silt is black-

The banner of House Kemet is black-

The 42 days between death and rebirth is black-

But the morning itself is white.

But the Unknowable is white.

But the Walls of the Holy City are white.

For the second time the falcons strike,

Water and wine are sprinkled on the tower at Philae,

Through reeds which are my tools.

O, writer of the book of Aten, Osiris dying at the hands of Seth,

And bringer of justice into the hall of Ammit,

Brother of Isis, Lover of the far star,

Protector of orbits and distinguisher of man,

Former of the river on land and the river beyond,

O, Ankh of Seba, Osiris living at the hands of Horus.

When I open my scaly mouth and sing,

I borrow speech. I tribute tone.

To:

The Shaper of Words, The Object of Words, and the Sound.

I hit these doors that hold apart- the hairless bull,

who struck you.

This is a new kind of king:

Who consents to part from upperworld,

Who consents to dive through underworld,

Who unites the papyrus to the nubians,

Who sails the duat to seek the primordial waters.

Praise the new kind of king! Sacrifice ourselves and each other,

May jackals in the house of the west lie down at his feat,

And may he ne'er see that bank a thousand years.

Praise the new kind of king! Equally,

He descends from the Shaper of the Words,

He is saturated with the Sound,

He is the Object of the Words.

In the Abyss,

This king,

Will swallow Apep,

His daughter sees all,

She pads through the river,

And strides across his home.

The cat will fire and fetter the serpent.

In our fearful land,

Though losing by the next eclipse.

In the image of Aten the magnificent,

We bow our heads and quake in fear,

As the doors are burned,

As the doors are burned,

As the doors give way,

To us.