Hyena Chronicles 2 "Hyena Hooks up with Little Red Riding Hood"

The Hyena Chronicles 2

Hyena Hooks up with Red Riding Hood - a Cautionary Morality Tale, 
Performance Poem, Installation

2012

Stuffled with braggadocio, I swagger and strut.  

Hyena, the hero, your daddy’s worst fear:

I am Beelzebub, Satan, a demon possessed. 

With sibilant grunts, and slavering jaws,

In the middle, between, intermezzo, unchecked,

shrouded in shadows, swashbuckling, engorged,

through systems of flux and infernos of lust

I charge the frontiers, through forests of

wildness and blackness and chaos and storms,

through fat plumes of steam, through mountains, ravines,

through abysses of rock and savannahs of gold.

Godd of Magic, shape-shifting, unstable in form, 

combusting in Limbo, embodying the Night.

I hoover my foes up my sinister snatch: 

pissed on concoctions of cuntbrew and flesh,

I tactically chunder the po-mo rhetoric, conceptual mind-fuck,

Belladonna trip, 

and I hallucinate phantasms of you.

I am the life-lightening, story-spinning machine of dis-ease.

Homunculus of facade, indestructible, sly.

I am crossing the Threshold and

tumbling in free-fall.

Boundary-straddling,

Soul-Stealing psychopomp, 

I dream mythologies of chaos and narratives of worlds 

where flamingoes and frogs are flapping and flipping,

hopping and cursing,

amphibious mutants spouting sordid tales of 

totems and gossip and deeds of misfortune; 

of monstrous dogs guarding Hades’ gates.

I am an Amazon warrior festooned with flowers,

tripping out on the miasma of phantoms;

chanting “Desire before Duty!”;

indulging the gustatory delights of flocks of caterwauling catamites. 

“Cocking arse!” I chant, quivering with derring-do and delight -

greedily slurping ambrosial dreams of dwarves.

Purveyor of bliss from the Emporium of Funk,

bathed by the moon’s liquid light and her lunar chill,

painted silver and glistening I lope down the track

and I hunt and I sniff and I smell you, 

Little Red Riding Hood.

Deep in the forest, far from the crowd,

I sneak up to your house, 

and breaking and entering, hoof grandma out.

Withered old crone, quasimodoed with regret:

I strip her, 

truss her, 

toss her in her cupboard...

I find you in the corner: wide-eyed, passive, 

tightly clutching your basket of good deeds to your chest.

Aha, I see in you, lady fair, the devil in disguise.

In my frock and my bonnet,

masquerading as Wolf, 

I’m slyly chatting you up, little Vision in Red:

you of the worthy causes, simpering queenette of grace and of charm,

always hustling and bustling,

your motto: “Must please, Must be loved, must be pretty and nice.”

Ha! You’re a whore on the streets, a lady in the sheets.

And with a quick flick of my wrist, I flash you a look at my ladymeat:

and in no time at all, you are

slipping on my slick dick, 

choking on my giant clit,

stroking your lady pearl,

hanging by your fingernails...

then

plunging

off the cliffs 

into skies of smoke.

But hark! Good girl gone bad, you say?

Oh, really?

Corrupted by sly, chimerical me, you’ve unleashed your beast,

frivolous girl, declared war on goodness, 

plunged into jubilant time warps of madness,

embracing the darkness and badness and mayhem and bedlam.

I have deflowered, deformed your sanitary self.

Oblivious to charm,I’ve snipped off your lashes, 

your baby blues batting, designed to entice.

But, you’ve fallen prey to me, so I sweep you up, 

corrupted maiden, onto my back and

usurping the witch’s place, 

you mount me, ride me, your trusty steed, 

into vast open spaces.

Dancing now to the tunes of desire,

We restlessly explore imagined plateaus, 

stretching and flattening on liminal horizons,

where myriad stars carpet the sky.

Fleeing the forest, careering miles through the veld, 

we’re whooping and chattering, howling and cackling. 

Slithering down the precipitous slopes, 

via endless chains of longing, 

entangled with yearning,

past lanterns of thought,

you’re now reformed but fragmented: 

guerilla-girl,

poster-pussy, 

hysterical diva, 

sex doll gone bad, gone mad, 

you have flung yourself, 

headlong, into the interregnum of sybaritic delights.

You are transformed and dissociated:

you hurtle and lurch 

past the hunched silhouettes of regret and remorse,

spewing the sweet-smelling logic of neuroses, psychoses;

logged onto the matrix and into the grid

in the clearest of light, 

whirling and spinning,

you 

are sucked 

down

deep,

into the metamorphorphic vortex of mystery,

where peripheral alchemy and

beautiful silences never heard

stretch away into infinite planes of invisible dreams.

Then lumpen cacophonies of thunder rupture honeyed cobwebs of heat.

Bursting free from the chrysalis of silk,

you are no longer subservient or sensible, or socially sound,

you’re now a desirable Wifman,

the harbinger of whispers, 

hero of the wonder tale:

promiscuous, omnivorous, anarchically glorious.  

Valkyrie of revenge, hell-bent on hedonistic glory.

Traversing the liminal zones, fueled by sensations and rhythms,

you shadow-walk ghostly outlines and cracks,

through the spaces of flux. 

You’re the marshal of nightmares, chimera made flesh;

Saturnalian shaman, all real muscles and spunk. 

You’re a superdude now, boundless and free, 

It-grrrl of dystopias, reigning supreme. 

And, unfurling your butterflies’ wings,

you are

now, 

finally,

Somewhere on the Way to Somewhere Else.

© Erica Böhr, 2012