Dance of Flames

Your hair is tendrils of autumnfire, burnished orange and gold,
the canyons ring with the drums of the earth, raging hum of All,
and in the balefire you are arms outstretched, feathered cloak
of souls, spinning your chalice to the lips of far-off angels,
to touch you is to be incinerated, and to see you surrender to
the rhythm is to be entranced by the eagle’s thermaling skyward,
feathers aflame, you caress the dead, place them as stars in sky,
oh sweet Prince of Heaven, you are so young in this moonlit vision,
and I ache for the solitude of the crackling fall, peace of ribbons
of sinew twined round your ankles, tethered to my glassblown heart,
for I am a pocket of air trapped by your lips, dreamweaver, and I
want nothing more than to watch the stomp of a multitudinous heart
that belongs to my maker, dusty mesa clay rises, the crickets call,
and we eat meat so sweet our teeth ache, all is just, all is fair.

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Of Frost and Fire

In the beginning was a gaping abyss, Ginnungagap,
but that Void dreamed, as all emptinesses do, She
dreamed a dream of love, and in her sleep was born
warmth, the spark of life, a great fire, and then
the liquid of birth and death, water frozen as ice,
Niflheim and Muspelheim, they dreamed only of you –
a being of perfection carved from primal elements,
in their dance they gave you the breath of wit, in
their kiss that melted and burned you were a child,
and you grew older as the fire grew higher, and ice
grew to tender water, layer upon layer of frost and
flame made you stronger, you were born of First Love,
before the gods ploughed the earthen dales, before
the elves made their shining home, before the dwarves
made brilliant gifts for the dwellers of Asgard,
before even the Norns let down their gray hair, you
were there, you the dancer in their tumultuous passion,
and I call you Ymir for you are a giant to me, colossal
in my mind, growing too large for my heart to contain,
and to love you is to die, be reborn in eternal dance,
for who is not frightened when their lonely universe,
the Ginnungagap in her chest, breathes life onto a
dusty heart, and the needfire awakens, blood quickens,
and Urda’s well springs up in her marrow, ices her mind,
and fire and water carve out a canyon for a perfect one
who the gods sent after prayers to wandering Mardoll
every night, giants are real, for you are Jotunblood
in my mind, a man of myth and legend, and to hold you
is to hang from Yggdrasil, and to let you in to the
beginning of my cosmos is a shy, tender task, but
my world would be nothing without you, so I will
be Audhumla and give sustenance to my altar of you,
licking salt and bleeding rivers of milky wonder,
and soon, I will ken your wanderings, but for now,
let me be your dream, be my driving force, and let
us be ice and flame, yin and yang, entwined like
Odin and Frigga, Freyr and Gerda, Loki and Sigyn,
to love a giant is easy – they eat girls, after all.

The Screaming Hollow

I met the devil at midnight, in bruises, bandages and blood,
we danced until my feet were bone, and the screaming hollow
wept with playing cards, magicians say they know you, own you
but your fury and madness are the rabid jackals and wild wolves
to tame Satan is only to take his own poison into your heart,
it is a slow death melting on a sacred whore of a flame, bent
between two needfires over a pit of gore, Solomon told no tales,
the rabbis did not utter your name, you are the Samiel wind,
hottest black sun, master of scorched corpses and festering wound
pray to the idols, the golden calves, raise pyres to witches
and the fivefold kiss, carry the Grim Reaper in your arms
and be the Consort of Sammael, Dread Lady, Angel of the Boneyard,
Watchdog of the Graves, his throne iron and crushed headstones,
meet him in girlhood and have him lead you to every dark crevasse,
palpitate your heart like butterfly wings and drink your moonblood,
devour your virginblood, suck the lifeblood out of hip junctures,
the Dark Lord marches, the Prince of Ruin flies, the dogs howl
at Great Sammael as he takes his twelve-winged flight up Sephiroth,
zig zag across stars like lightning, feast on the flesh of Damned,
drink down his seed and bear his children, your son Azazel Scapegoat,
your daughters little Liliths with blonde hair, Naamahs with cymbals,
a Holocaust is all Hell, your dreams are long fucks and quick rides
on a motorcycle that was once a pale steed, you couple in filth, decay
rains from the sky as his embrace strangles and lips suck your soul,
you are six feet under in his arms, and his eyes are poison cabernet,
he planted the first vine of grape and pomegranate, first apple seed
is his heart, fructified within your loveless ribs, screaming ecstasy
for Eve, bitter ruin for any Adam you marry, for the Serpent owns all.

When Loki Found Sigyn

I sing of he who is always a guest, never truly welcome,
wanderer from the Iron Woods and Odin’s blood brother,
son of Laufey Leafy-Isle and Farbauti Lightning-Strike,
mother of Sleipnir, father of Death, Serpent, and Wolf,
consort of the ruddy-haired Angrboda, and scar-lipped,
sly tongued liar, though he is cursed to tell the truth.

I sing of Sigyn Fetter-Breaker, Victory Woman, Mother
to Narvi and Vali, Child Bride, Keeper of the Bowl
that suspends poison from touching her dear husband,
the only one that could drink down fire and quench
the burning loneliness of Loki, steadfast wife of
the hearth and wildfire, blue flower of the sea.

Loki had flown in Freyja’s falcon cloak far and wide.
No woman pleased him, not Sif’s ample hips or Freyja’s
wily ways, Odin’s mead was bitter, his longing for
someone who did not smile then turn away whenever
he entered the room – be our fool, Loki, be our
friend, then we will spit your name like a curse.

Who in the Nine Kingdoms did not despise him when
his trickery caught the best of him? He laughed
through the pain of sewn lips and flytings, even
Odin could not ken the depths of his madness, it
ate away at Loki like acid that would someday drip
from Skadi’s snakes, but that was centuries away.

Loki was still young, still a wanderer, Angrboda
was fierce, yes, and he was proud of Hela, Fenrir,
and Jormungandr, but to have an etin-bride far
away in Jotunheim left his Asgardian bed cold
when rain pelted like hail and the girls and
boys had tired of his amusements, they said he
slept with anything that could move, horse or
hag, but truly, Loki did not want to be alone
when the darkness came, and silence reigned.

Fire fears the dark, and Loki wanted kindling.

And then past the edge of the Worlds, at Urda’s
Well, Loki saw a young woman picking cornflowers.
She had hair like wood, a body like a beautiful
supple violin, and her smile lit up the mountains.

Was she As or Van? Jotun or Alf? Human, maybe?
It is lost to time. But she sang, and she would
offer the flowers to the well, they are her magic,
you see – they broke Loki’s chains in the end, for
Sigyn is the Fetter Breaker, and do you really think
anyone else in Asgard but she who held the bowl
could set Loki free from his torments?

Where do you think she poured the leftover venom but
onto Loki’s chains, rusting them century by century
until her now broken husband was free, she stayed
sane for him, for their dead children, for All.

But that was a far away wyrd, and Loki wooed her
with the simple promise: I will make you my bride.
I will love you as the wildfire loves the forest.
I will devour all your fears and fructify soil, I
will give you my tongue, for I have no sword, and
please, oh please Sigyn, let me but hold you, for
I am so lonely amongst friends, so tearful behind
my smile, and your kindness is something that will
save me in the depths of my insanity, you will be
my answer to all the cruelties of a hard life, in
the end, I will have done it all for you, my wife.

And Sigyn held him, and comforted him, and she said
I will love you and bake you sweet bread, I will bear
you sweet boys that will never reach adulthood, but
we will love them nonetheless, in your kitchen I will
sing, I will hang the ceiling with flax and flowers,
I will spin and sew you clothes and secrets, I will
be your bride, sweet Loki, for I see past your silver
tongue a man whose heart is broken, and it will take
an eternity to mend, but I am water, I fit into your
cracks, I will whet your fire and ground you, husband.

And their love was the strongest of Asgard, and their
trials were the cruelest of all invention, but still
they love, and still Loki protects his humans with
utter warmth, wit, and humor, and still Sigyn lets
no hungry mortals come to her table, still she tends
wounds you didn’t even know existed, and they welcome
the outcasts, the mad, the wild who do not belong,
for in the hall of the Madman and the Fetter Breaker,
no one cries for long, and happiness plays like songs.

Sif

A snowy corset of lace and winter
bedecked in rainbow Bifrost jewels
waist so slender and starry tender
a neck like a swan, face like a doe,
gentle curves make Thor’s wife sweet,
but she is a warrior, she is wheat,
she wields gold-proud hair aflame,
and walks the aurora bridge, noble
and electric, the harvest’s dame,
lady of summer secrets, autumn mist
rises from bare milky toes, her eyes
are wild with the seasons, Sif is
unfettered ripe fields, earthen
mother of Ullr, Lady of Bilskirnir,
Hail to the hallowed Woman of Fall!

Hymn for Freyja

Freyja blooms with the wildflowers, green and rose
golden light crowns the Vanadis’ flaxen head, radiant
as dawn as her toes shine with the light of Vanaheim,
amber Brisingamen at her milk and cream breast sparkles
she is the sow, the dun cow full of butter, mead, barley,
fruitful in this vision of wandering Mardoll, Syr is sweet
as honeysuckle breeze, wheat bends and bows to its Queen,
oh Lady of Folkvangr, hail your blessed dead and riders
that circle the Wild Hunt sky, your tears shed brassy
brilliance and blossom into lovers tussling in the hay.

Hail Freyja! Hail Ingvi’s Bride-Twin! Hail the Wife of Odr!
Hail Mother of the Girl Treasures, Gersemni and dear Hnossa!
Hail wandering sea-born Mardoll! Hail Rider of the Hunt!
Hail Queen of the Valkyries! Hail the Lady of Vanaheim!

My heart is in your bountiful hands, my mistress, sweet
as your smile, and I am singing your name like a kitten.

Be gentle on this precious love, and guide me to radiance.

Mayhem is My Time

I’m crumbled in back alley grit, sweat and spit,
there’s lights on in skyscrapers but down here?
It’s cold, it’s treacherous, and wolves eat bone.
I’m running through dumps and machine elves hunt
down the happening hipster parties, trash fires
are orange Day Glo or maybe Fanta, swill gutter
juice, we’re all having a good time, a drag time
you’re hooked on hookah and say mayhem is my time
on your red thread dead head shirt with a stain.
Oh ex-husband I fuck when the moon is full, why
are you always in dives, thrive in moonlit madness,
the underbelly of Hell is full of panties and pasties
everyone here has needles and joints on hand, strand
of blood red Styx that washes gore ashore, I’m
tick tock clocking in your palm, flying skyways
lucid dream, my fingers are mutated, hedgewitch
that drinks with the Devil in the pale barlight.
Tonight is just a quick hookup with destruction,
it took hours of roofhop top clopping to find you,
to bind you, bedazzled like a drag queen junkie,
you are all lazy wolf and I am lay low lion, we
are perfectly imperfect for each other, and I
eat your leather and swallow your smoke, bitter
things taste best when mayhem braids my hair,
without a care, we laze past midnight, dawn
draws cranky rays, Samael, you are timeless,
so stop with the statement shirts, you’re just
fucked, for someday Cronos catches up, at sup
on virgin flesh and dove hearts, let’s chew
the gristle of this drain train town fanged
and make beauty out of misery, I the prettiest
thing here, you my beast I mount at Apocalypse,
but it’s the End Times every night for me,
so kneel before me, manwhore, and kiss
my feet.