Honey, Grain, and Amber

The Shining Twins wear amber and green
golden hair like barley and wheat, eyes
blue for Mardoll, green for Ingvi, Vanic
rites of sweetening harvest, first shaft
of wheat springing up in the fields, wains
carry the Twins across Germania for pageants
no sword may be drawn, no blood spilled,
for in the temple of the Golden Ones is frith
prosperity tilled from the soil as lovers
lay down and know Gerda’s passion for Freyr,
heartsick Freyja’s tears of jewels after Odr,
the Twins themselves rut in the dirt like boars
like Nerthus and Njord before them, Sacred Rite
of scythes falling grain, and rains aplenty
the Lord and Lady walk in peace come eventide.

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The Bet: Does love or gold rule the hearts of women?

This is wonderful!

mainer74

One morning Freya had been listening to a translation of the newly recovered Hamaval.  In particular she was listening without amusement to Odin’s words on the fickleness of women.  Her ire aroused, the passionate Vanir confronted the one-eyed wanderer and took him to task.

“Your one eye has blinded you, old fool”  Freya shouted with her famous passion “It is the passion of love, not of gold that moves women.  Perhaps in your dotage you meet only those women whose affections YOU must buy.”

As all of Asgard prepared for the second round of their most famous war, the Wise Counsellor laughed deeply and long, his great white beard shaking in mirth.  Odin offered the golden goddess a challenge:

“I will wager a hundred heroes from my hall, that any woman we agree on will chose for gold over passion in the end.”

“Agreed!” Shouted Freya, “No magic from you…

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Fat Day

These tan curves and gold curls are lies.  I want to take a razor to the slope of my belly and dredge out my intestines.  Beat my brain on the pavement and screw pins into my skin.  Beautiful, they say, but I know I am ugly as the Beast.  That is why we get along so well, because I am the witch that eats men in the woods, seductress, your destruction, and my eyes are pools you will drown in.

I want to feel a gun to the head, just the weight of it against a temple to make gray matter a moon bow on the wall.  I want a razor to carve pretty lies onto my thighs and rest my decapitated head on my lap.  Monster, monster, in the looking glass.  Suicide, matricide, martyr.  I’m the mother of no one, but still they come to me wailing, drink my blood milk, and maybe I’m Babylon and a wild whore strapped between two needfires with albino crows, cawing in song with my children, but on the surface?  You would never know.

I don’t say I’m an enchantress, but there’s the shamanic journeying, the five-fold kiss, the familiars and demons and angels and gods all clashing in my head like the Wild Hunt.  I’ve gone mad, dreamed of drowning, thought of perilous calls as Hati and Skoll chase me through the tundra.  I’ve had the Devil play my organs like the finest of violins and still my music would be better if he snapped my spine instead of caressing it.

Divinity wants to break me open and suck the stars from my marrow.  I rant, I rave, I froth at the mouth – the true Beast is Cipactli, Tiamat, the She-Leviathan, a Mother of the Deep that possesses me to dance with wild abandon.  I will devour all and leave blank snow in my wake, Kelvin zero.  I’m out of control, and today is a day for damnation.

Slut.  Whore.  Temptress.  Jezebel.  Woman Clad in Night.  I will be the Thunder Perfect Mind Sophia, Alpha and Omega as I straddle the corpse of my lover and pound him into the dirt.  I am not sane, I am the mad she-bitch that nursed Managarm, Angrboda of the Iron Woods, consort of chaos but master of the giants that will eat Midgard.

Once I was beautiful, terrible to behold, a blushing Psyche, now I’ve donned the snakes of Medusa and I will rake my serpents through the dirt in bind runes to summon Walpurgisnacht devils from the mountains.  I am Terror, I am Fury, I am Wrath.  Scorn me and face the angel of death, White Reaper riding on the tempest of Satan’s heart, flame sword glory general of the Prince of Heaven.

I see through your ruses.  Your lies.  Your pretty words and cloying compliments.

I know what I am.

I am wild, untamed.

The beast in the forest.

The monster of my disease.

And I will eat you, madman.

All to discover your magic.

Scapegoat

Azazel rolls a joint and breathes in fumes
exhales blood and guts, churling smoke, his
eyes amber goat dilated, sideways spears,
he’s a slacker, a dealer, a crust punk parade
hair blue or pink depending on his intuition
first he’s a familiar face, then he slips into
clothes your best friend wore, he’s bumming
around the astral and bothering you, uninvited
guest crashing on the couch of your unconscious
you rat him out to the angels that bound him
eons ago, and he begs a poem out of you, or a
poppet shaped like mom, some bit of remembrance
before he marches back to Dudael, he wails, you
want nothing more than the horned goat chained.