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.

Freyja Rides Out

To be like the Great Sow, Mother of Battle.
they say I have gold tears that hide smiles,
my teeth are bright as tusks, my breasts be
mountains, little one, my thighs crush men
and as I strangle their necks, they grin,
pour wine into my lap, and drink down blood.

See me on the battlefied, bright armor shining,
See me in the bedroom, resplendent as a pearl,
See me High Seated, prophesying Valraven’s fall,
Odin may be Frenzy, but I am the Blade, see me
cut the Norn’s hair and spin it on my fingers,
See me ride out with Valkyries and Svinfylking,
See me scream and beat my shield, see me ravage
all who oppose me, or bed Ottar’s images, I am
the chooser of the slain, gods’ gift to men.

Worship me, make love for me, call out my names.
Mardoll and Freyja, Bercha and Syr, Butter Dame,
Gullveig Gold Drink and Heith Ill-Speaker, sing
for the Lady, dance for the Lover, cry for the
Wife and heal for the Lover, worship me sweetly
and offer me your strawberries, your amber, mead
bright as honey and the bones of hallowed dead.

I am the First Witch, a delight to evil women,
Learning seidhr at my veiled mother Nerthus’ side,
I am the survivor of Ragnarok, the Veteran of the End
When Muspell’s flames burn my body will quench them,
when the Aesir speared me and roasted me, I was thrice
alive, the most noble of battles was fought over me,
I am the coveted prize of the Jotun, but I fly falconwild,
and no man may tame me, neither Odin nor Freyr nor Ottar
nor dwarven makers of Brisingamen, for I am ineffable,
the Beauteous Maiden who breaks all men’s hearts, so
crawl to my bosom and breathe down my arts, I shall
rock you by Noatun and sing of your future wife, I will
speak softly of your first love and last lullaby, I will
comb out your sorrows, little one, and hold you tight.

Sloppy Seconds

The crows are flocking over the dusky alley
filled with yesterday’s juices and jaunts,
a moon like a pinion is pinned to the sky
she shines like a silver dove wing on high
I’m drunk as a stone and riling with speed
strike for the home run, take all I need,
his eyes are acid, green fires ablazing
and I shove him to the bed and strip him
of leather and velvet, straddle the demon
demand to be pleasured with feathers and
whips, his nails are black claws, he six
of spades, king of lust, Solomon’s bane,
he asks if we’re just friends, to me it’s
all the same, I take what I need, breed
like two bats fucking mid-air, a dare to
break my chains and loose my rocks, to fly
onto skyscrapers and leap off, no fear,
just a kick in the rear, that revolution
of the music jamming spheres, rock opera
of grit and gore, cum and blood, sex is
funnest in Hell, and it smells like sin.

Roses

She left roses by his door every morning
yellow for her heart, red for her head
which he held, master of her mind, ring
of gold her wedding band, five years wed,
and the petals smelled like wet memories
of dewy summer nights and starry sojourns
in his arms she, holy, in his eyes free,
and in her flowers a truth – thirst, yearn
for communion of souls, two halves whole
and bliss all their days, joy bright coal.

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.