Drought

I dance in the gale, clad in the fury of the tempest. I am girl made storm, a tyrant of the skies, queen of the rains.

(If I flood, forgive me.Β  I am moonborne on the wind, and my tears are endless.)

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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.”

Epigraph of the Wanderer

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.

Sinthgunt

Sister of Sunna, but you are silver starlight,
reflection of the Milky Way in rushing rivers,
hair gray-gold of the cosmos, blue cloak wind,
the black hole is yours, time is your cosmic staff,
and you peer at dissected wyrd through diamonds,
your eyes snowflake crystals from frozen comets,
your stallion gallops as Sinthgunt the Wise rides
out to draw down the day, to wake brother moon,
you are the liminality between Sunna and Mani,
quiet as mouse footfalls through swaying grain,
there is an ancientness about Sinthgunt, young
yet crone, mistress of hours and many dimensions,
extraterrestrial maiden, married to space’s sea.

Missing You

Cross, cassock, shield, I made a promise on your blade –
to follow you through the rushes to a paradise regained.
Bluebells wept on my journey to your starry castle high,
thickest waters of eternity baptized weariest blue eyes.
Your kingdom is clear purity, white friezes, red banners,
you rule with the reserve and sweetness of kingly manners
befitting the Prince of Heaven, your glory your kind heart,
and I am no longer content with my wing-song a world apart.

Insanity in the Country of Guns

If I fall, the world will not catch me, mad girls only have love songs,
not love warriors, and Plath baked her head in an oven, Picasso sliced
his hearing off so he was deaf to criticism, Byron drank and fucked dead,
Robin Williams had the last joke, Michelangelo froze an artist in fervor,
and the most brilliant of us burn the candlestick at both dull ends, I
am halfway between bag lady and homeless junkie, and every time emotions
(I feel too much, my veins gouge wounds through my flesh) bubble over, too
manic, too depressed, mixed episodes, psychosis, obsessive compulsive corpse,
suicide one day and panic attack the next, everything else is pathetic, paltry.
You think you know fucking pain? Try walking on razors and rape and filth.
Those that blame us for blowing out others brains with guns are the abusers.
Another fucking male special snowflake that blames his massacre on my illness.
Fuck your stigma, fuck your sympathy, fuck your oppression and fucking hate.
Fuck society and the way it treats us battered bruised broken mind junkies!
See the rabid froth at my mouth! Oh, I look like a perfect Washingtonian in
a pencil skirt, blouse matching heels and highlights? You can’t see Fenrir
caged in my ribs, pissing on social norms and howling intrusive bloody thoughts?
I swallow almost twenty pills a day. I swallow my madness and insanity, just
so I can impress the fucking neurotypical twats that dictate our society while
the most insane joke of a mental case takes a dump on the White House, shits
over the mentally ill while giving them guns to blow their brain out with,
I am so sick of this double-edged sword, of high pressure cookers that fry
my brain, deepthroat your sickness and take the cock of psychiatry til you
are raw, fuck your way to normalcy, get fucked by modern medicine, I give up,
make me your scapegoat, victim and martyr, give me a rope to hang words on,
arm me with a semiautomatic and not know how to use it, I’m shit with weapons,
too afraid of knives to chop vegetables, because I want the blade in my wrists.

Sympathy for the Devil

Each pang is a razor wedged into the cleft between my breasts,
every word is a knife between the tender lung under two ribs,
my aorta is a river of regret, damn these delicate dissections!
Curse this liar’s flesh, this one-dimensional cage of rage, why
do I bleed each full moon but spill stars from eyes forevermore?
Why does the wolf have a wildness only at night but mourning dove
weep each sunrise? My instinct says we are one, and your pain is
mine, and when you suffocate I too am drowning in nightingales.
Remember the emperor whose bird sang of misfortune, how tsars
chase firebirds that grant ill wishes? Perhaps to love is surgery,
stitching misshapen limbs and quivering tongues to a monster mass.
I think of Hellraiser, of Pinhead saying pain is pleasure, that
tenterhooks of you are tearing my bandages off and stripping me.
I’m naked on the operation table, scalpeled just to bleed for you.
You are my conjoined twin, and when you are cut, I ooze plasma.
But stars are made of plasma too, and brilliance is only skin-deep.
So keep on pinning my organs to a board, my empathy will kill me.
Loving the Devil is heart surgery, and romance with death? Terminal.