Father of the Wolf

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
ground.

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Whispers from the Wolf

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
her.”

Well of Urd

There are ice crystals inside you, Niflshot from Hela
they freeze your bones and you are at Yggdrasil’s root,
searching for the heat of Muspell, find only ancestors
whose blood is gone, and placid contemplation of winter
swims through the web of wyrd, well of Urd, drowning
in the branches, flying through the loam, you are the
Odinic hangman grasping for the runes from ancient
Ginnungagap, all there is is the void, eternity, ice
and fire, fire and ice, hot and cold, heat and death.

Can You Feel the Winter Coming?

Kneel for the Alfather, in standing stone,
bloody runes on the boulder and crawl in,
soak in mead and honey, tangle your hair,
it is golden in the dark cave, burn burn.

The firmament churns like Urd makes butter,
Frigga spins flax and cards heavenly wool,
I make rainbows out of Heimdall’s breath,
but the Wild Hunt does not ride my Bifrost –

No, my path is for the dead, past Helheim,
in unions in darkest earthen cauldrons,
slick with the dew of Ymir’s icy wastes,
I am alone in Ginnunungap, paltry salt.

I am Mordgud Blood Maiden, I am bell toll.
Watch me weave my arteries on my spine,
pay my ferrywoman price, tithe your Hel
I will offer you to Her, nothing more.

Nothing less than a table at Hela’s dry
feet, the dust bread of dead, silence.
Down here it is cold but no one wants.
Down here it freezes, but we don’t feel.

Can you see Her spread Her fingers aloft
in the vines of veins, veins of leaves,
ribs of trees, trees of the nine worlds?
Winter is coming, Odin does not own it.

Winter is coming, and Fenrir howls high.
The moon is eaten by wolves, the sun bleeds
gold then darkness in Hati’s lupine womb,
plant seeds in beast’s black after harvest.

Winter is here, Hela walks as ice maiden.
Autumn just a passing fancy, and Valraven
rots on a yew, corpse bloated and swinging,
in Dying He is more alive than the Living.

Know the secrets of Hela Half-Rotted, see
the pennants of flesh on her corpse breast,
smell the compost and dirt of Her skin, kiss
Her bone hand, and sleep until springtide.

Sleep, dream, die, it is all the same to me,
for I have dreamed and died and eaten ashes,
She was sweet to me, He was a thunder strike,
in autumn He and She make a secret only I know.

What is the secret of Bolverk and Loki’s Pride?
It is sweet Balder on a shiply pyre adrift to
seidhr waters, golden Nanna enflamed, safety
is only found after Ragnarok, wouldn’t you know?

Winter came for Balder come mistletoe’s kiss.
And Odin rides the worlds for His son’s ghost.
Sweet Frigga weeps tears of sapphire, then snow.
And Hela and Nanna talk long by the hearth-side.

Winter comes for us all, even the gods, even
Death will Die, and in Dying, Live Again,
Anew, Life Eternal may be found in snow.

Thanatos Drive

I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.

It is so brilliant to not breathe.

It is so terrible to live like this.

Hela’s Tithe

The blonde huldra has a birch bark back
she dances in flowery fields for Freyr,
delights in cow tail sweeping men’s sleep
one with the earthen ploughs and dales,
a dancer on the Forest King’s hollows,
but just as Ingvi gives his life harvest,
so must the elf woman learn of sacrifice.
She sleeps in a gossamer moss down bed,
hair long as wheat shafts, sparkling sun,
the Maiden of Helheim, Hela Half Rotted,
rises with the moontide, graces the girl
a spiderwork of bones shimmer under skin
as Hela lays hands over the burning witch
she may belong to the Golden God, but Hela
is also her mistress, life and death twine
like thread in braided brass hair, frolics
in fields, Ingwaz to Ear, Green Man falls
to Lady Death’s scythe, and in the milk of
her marrow, John Barleycorn is reborn.

Holding Hela’s Hand

Bone fingers on mine as I shepherd ancestors
across the Veil, onto starry Death’s breast,
Hela grips my hand with ice and snowflakes,
her palms slide to my hips to ground my roots
as souls pour into me as black brilliant sparks
wreathed in white halos, flickering into light
Hela’s bosom is all Helheim, I drive in rainy
memories through those not yet in her kingdom,
first there is the overwhelming smell of decay,
a corpse baking sickly sweet in the summer sun,
slowly bodily fluids evaporate, bacteria feasts,
and the rot becomes wet dirt, Hela is beautiful
but does not shelter her girls from true passing
no antiseptic white wards here, just honorable
necrosis, hazy gray globes of eyes, bone white
hair that wreathes a half-flesh, half-frozen face
Hela smiles gently, and I become mist in her arms.