Three Poems

by Arbogast

Jun 23, 2026

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Gallows Feast

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Come, carrion birds

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and idle onlookers.

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See ‘em swing,

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see ‘em bounce in the breeze.

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Do you dare to touch?

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Do you dare to see

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how long, from finger to knee,

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runs red those kinky innards?

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It’s a fine show, no?

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It’s good to see Hell early.

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It’s fine for the misaligned

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to die.

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Don’t cry—rejoice!

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It was their choice,

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after all,

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to die like dogs.

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All this is,

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all this ever is,

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is a rendezvous party—

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one last hurrah

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for the buzzards and the bees,

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the maggots and worms,

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and the catchers of the blood

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wanting yet another feast.

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September

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I found your note:

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your suicide note…

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today.

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The sun was shining,

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and somehow summer held on,

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but you didn’t.

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You went with the blowflies

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on the whore’s corpse:

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a-festering.

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You hid your blood well—

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in the backyards

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among the bushes.

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No cul-de-sac creature

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will ever find you.

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But I know…

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I know your last thoughts.

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I know your last dreams.

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Such nightmares on pavement,

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and flecks of foam

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on quivering lips.

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This is how it goes in September.

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So, go gather the ghosts

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and ask for treats,

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I’ll take your letter

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and crawl

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into my own

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coffin.

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Across the Battlements

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Red knight, green knight.

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A spinning black sun.

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Crooked rays shine on

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the many turrets of

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the grand mausoleum.

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Here, the snow has gathered

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for the old ritual.

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Which warrior will wince

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when the severed necks

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pump plumage instead of blood?

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It is their duel which must dance;

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It is their war which must end,

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not in victory,

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but in the continuation of the game.

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Players shall play on—

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ravished maidens shall be captured,

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and their hearts wrung pale for

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graal wine.

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A toast then for the absurdity of it all.

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For life lived exquisitely,

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and for nothing at all.

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This is the only thing to be done

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each equinox.

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When the world—the castle—

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pretends to be enchanted.