Aztec Gods

Huitzilopochtli, Southern Hummingbird, aloft, aloft,

Patron lord of the Mexica,-

We who trekked in exodus to the site foretold,

The eagle perched on a cactus,

Small birds feathers scattered around-

Make us a rainbow!

Fallen warriors escort the risen sun,

Beating their wings to frisk the skies for rain.

Come, strict fruition, in strife and immolation,

Implacable daystar, be nourished with blood,

The red of sacred terror in men’s veins...

Tlazolteotl, excremental goddess,

Hears confessions from the dying,

Their evil whispered in her ear.

Spare us, spare us- we who believe!

The rabbit moon leaps. The pulque-gods seethe.

Tezcatlipoca, Smoking Mirror,

Sleek black jaguar padding across the heavens,

Our sorcerers will feed your maw

With trembling incantation.


New Fire is unsheathed on the Hill of the Star,

Fire-drill swivelled in the sacrifice’s breast;

A slash, a yank and a live throbbing heart

Is offered to the saviour flame.

The Flayed God sniffs the iron reek,

The Sunstone revolves, world after world

Destroying themselves in hopeless succession.

Whittled jaguar-bone in hand, the ruler

Gladly stabs his own ears and thighs,

Red flowers blooming for his people.


A comet scorches the heavens. A temple burns.

On a calm day the lagoon seethes like a cauldron.

Phantasmal women wail beneath the moon,

Prophesying unavoidable disaster.

Hunters come before Moctezuma,

Bringing a wondrous, unnameable fowl,

A circular speculum set in its head.

Peering therein, the Emperor sees

The stars by day, and, looking again,

A bizarre fearsome horde, drawn up

In squadrons, advancing to war,

Creatures half-man, half-deer.

A runner comes up, babbling of a mountain

In the sea, erupting in fiery monition.


The white god has returned from the east,

Not seen on these shores since the Toltecs’ demise.

Aztec envoys, coming down to the harbour,

Place the turquoise serpent mask upon

The face of a hard-bitten Spanish hidalgo.

Quetzalcoatl throws a thunderbolt from his hand,

-A cannon fired in brisk ceremonial salute,-

And the Aztec deputation fall, terrified, to the ground.

Picking them up, the bemused Spaniards

Restore these ridiculous little creatures with wine.

What witchcraft is this, the Aztecs ask themselves,

Clutching their heads, feeling their souls

Imprisoned, so sluggish, befuddled, dehumanised.