Since Farbauti struck Laufey with lightning,
kindling primordial fire in earthen cracks,
you have sailed through skies a deceiver,
Gammleid, vulture’s treacherous path, oh
Flaming Bastard, how you made troll women
your whores, fetters your mistresses, lies
your bridesmaid gown at Thor’s marriage feast.
Loki, swift one, enchanter and cunning fool!
Father of the Wolf, Master of Death, Progenitor
of the Snake, you are poison par excellance,
shooting poet’s veins with silver tongues,
and I’m tangoing to your madness, gleaming
fire your toothy grin, teeth tear witch
hearts apart, you burn everything that stands
in your way, tear it all down, charred to the
Scarlip and the Old Bastard go way back, sweet-tooth,
see them dancing in the rain under an abandoned train,
watch them scooping sparrow eggs to fry up for food,
they cast runes to woo the maidens, Loki with elvin
songs on his guitar of ash wood, Odin the shaman drum.
Blood brothers, mud brothers, river brothers, stone.
They mixed lips and wine and gore in a damp summer,
a ragtime summer, and they wander the Nine Worlds,
only to find crows, ravens, vultures, snakes, wolves.
Flamehair and Greyhair. Alfather and Father of Monsters.
One sage, one shady, none saint. Deal us your finest
cigars, bartender, another glass, we toast our kinship
on this darkest winter night, memories play like storms.
Ottar my boar, my bridegroom, my steed!
Spill your hoof-blood on ruby red leaves,
ride on through autumnal romance, seek
ancestors in the stars of Hyndla’s eyes,
our union is one of hero and shieldmaiden,
brave the draugr and dokkalfar, your tusks
root for hidden Balder in dying sunlight,
the long days are coming, my steed, rut
with me as Syr, Sow, in field and furrow.
Trample the grass and know your legend.
Firelight does not feed me, hoarfrost razes my skin bare,
I am in the wilderness with only my heart as a lantern.
The trees are tall as Ymir, my bread and ale are cold,
I am shivering without Freyja’s falcon cloak, so why
do they call me a flame? My warmth is their laughter.
When I am cast out of the long hall, my candle withers.
For I am a tallow made of the fat of Audhumla’s milk.
Burn me up and I will give riches like dripping wax.
Come too close to me, I am blistering heat, but all
that sunny humor is lost on me now as I wander, alone.
In truth I am in a cave, blinded by poison, mind in
Niflhel, bound by my son’s guts, and my breaking mind
is used to light my wife’s travails, blood seeps from
my cracked skull, but it is divine, so light the stubs
with the sorrow of the trickster, my winter is forever,
Narvi is a starving child in snow, and my sweet Vali
a ravenous wolf that devours what little meat Narvi is.
I never knew what I had until I lost it.
Once, I was rich as a king.
So, for my thanksgiving,
I praise memory – Mimir,
that I may live the past.
For the present is too
much to bear.
When I was young, I thought with my silver tongue, that the world
was my oyster, but Andvari’s treasures are cursed, and Brisingamen
is won through lies. Gift for a gift, well I am the gift for gods,
hair like hearth, wit and humor, jester and trickster and fool.
I exist so that you and a million other lips can sew mine shut.
And neither Angrboda’s strong arms nor Sigyn’s caresses can whet
my madness, chained for the two-man con, so that Yggdrasil would
blossom with mistletoe, I whispered in Hodor’s ear, “Aim true.”
But the blindness of the Aesir are what have driven me broken
and cracked, there’s a hole in my brain you see, it lets the
The Fenris Wolf is marsh chomp madness, Nastrond froth
at lip like knives, man in a silver pelt with dog nose,
beard of woman binding, sweet lies his eternal weeping.
He whispers in my skaldic ear of a sister long-lived,
but long-dead, Hela Jodis, horse of the blue ancestors,
Othala and Nauthiz and Hagalaz, crowned in black bog.
She dances in shadow and peat, painted skeleton cobweb,
tattered dress of white taffeta and lace, decay mask
gapes open to reveal the infinity of endless green wyrd.
“My sister is the only one who braves the blizzard to
feed me, the starving ruin of Asgard, and I weep for my
family, torn apart by the Aesir, I shall devour all but
Inked on my hand in charcoal swaying
is the Ancient Wanderer, silent hang
from a yew that bends with sweet sap.
His one good eye a forgotten breeze,
his hands like tines raking the dirt,
searching past waterfalls for language.
There is a lightning swastika sun,
an emblem once holy, now cursed,
his corpse is blood-drunk but holy.
Blindi can see with more than nerves,
for his bones are in the web of wyrd,
now a Runic rock carving on my skin.