Frigga

There’s a spindle whirring in Frigga’s lap
and she stares down the World Tree eternal
churning bloody milk in Urda’s well, flax
becomes golden Sif hair, twine is dyed with
mead from Kvasir, it is her High Seat truly,
Odin is just a guest, her breasts Asgardian
skies, her eyes Mani and Sunna, her teeth
brilliant stars, weave wyrd and play lives
of Midgard out on her skein, beneficient
tender of the hearth, of my home, Frigga
does not like to be brilliant as Freyja
instead she wears dun white and fawn brown,
keys at her waist that open the Nine Worlds,
when she was young she was a Wanderer, but
few know how Frigga charmed her way across
the realms with sweet words and stories like
the finest of cheese and bread, bite into her
tales to children and elderly and warriors,
find the sweetest of mulled cider warm on
an autumn that speaks of motherhood harvest,
Frigga is tied to the seasons, the land,
she gave birth to light for a reason, for
Balder is what happens when death meets
life, Odin and Frigga are polar opposites,
that is why the Alfather kneels for no one
but her, he becomes a cabbage moth to flame
in Frigga’s bosom, and her body is All,
her breath could melt Niflheim, her wealth
is the way the Norns chant runes and cut
Frigga’s cloth to rainbow spindrils, no,
Frigga is the keeper of the Aesir and Vanir,
under her doe gaze, gods sleep peacefully.

Heart Chakra

The Prince of Heaven’s a priest, and Satan is a lawyer
cassock and cross hide fervor for a maiden of the flock
we meet in the abbey under shadowlight and frankincense,
gentle touches, soft sighs, the priest clutches crucifix
and drips holy water on my buttermilk breast, moaning
out all the hundreds of names of God in all languages,
it is autumn, wool scarf wrapped tight around a habit,
we drink coffee, steal kisses, my mind is a theater,
and under an umbrella in the rain he spreads his wings
and we fly to a heavenly bower, heat of celestial fire
in my heart as my decolletage spills secrets to angelic
lips that starve for human communion, Italian castles,
windswept sea, Michael’s realm is a Da Vinci drawing,
or perhaps brilliant Venice and Mediterranean lights
brilliance of the divine, I marvel in him, my devotion
is solid as mist, for its home is arboreal, and I am
lost in trees of my beloved, awaken in morning tides.

Hell is Other People

The demons feast on dove hearts, blackened
charcoal at their eyes, serrated tongues
split open the elegy, this is no funeral,
just fucking on beds of sinners, frozen
Hell, Asmodeus picks his teeth clean with
a spine, Beelzebub’s flies clean rot from
the wreckage of a girl, decay is my name,
and I am dressed in meat, walk through rot,
ash of offerings to the Qliphoth husks,
I always wondered what a husk was anyways,
corn peel? Empty shells that mock Sephiroth?
Fuck the Kabbalah, I hate ceremonial crap.
I’m drinking wine – or is it blood? I am
plastered, and the wreckage of the ballroom
has broken windows and mirrors for orgies –
pound your cock into Lilith and defile her,
but she is already a Whore, Queen Babalon,
and Samael has been castrated, he spreads
pale legs to reveal a gaping abyss, jets
towards me and I reach my hand in and pull
out bloody pustules to pop like a cherry,
maybe I’ve taken his demonic virginity,
what the fuck is this night, I’m so drunk,
stumbling around in stilettos and swill,
Belial is playing some Kurt Cobain jam,
Asmodeus’ acid green eyes play poker with
Shedim breast, the Seirim are horny goat
dancing on the tabletops, Satan is trashed,
moreso that usual, I’m wasted beyond belief,
why I begged to be here is beyond me,
Hell is Hell because of other people,
and all the archdemons grate my nerves,
so I stumble out the door, into night,
I’m not sober enough to deal with devils,
and I could never hold my liquor, best
not to fuck anything in sight, better
to not fool around with Death, and shit,
exorcise the cum off your hands, girl.

You’ve been stained since you were born.

Ratatosk Tells a Tale

“Do you think I was alone
when I hung on that windswept
tree nine nights, spear-heavy,
a sacrifice unto myself?”

“Never.”

“Frigga was my altar.”

Images flow through my mind of a young Odin, drenched in blood and wolfskins, Ratatosk at his shoulder as he drives his spear into the carrion of the slain, choosing only the choicest bits to go to Valhalla. The Valkyries carry away the Einherjar in a wine-dark ascendancy in sulfur skies.

The Alfather hangs from a yew. Ratatosk nibbles his one eye. The other is closed, turned inwards, meditative even. The globe of blue and blood will fall into a well, for squirrels plant seeds, and you can drink the gore from and know what Frigga sees from the High Seat, but it will cost you your life, and your tongue.

All it took was the beat of the buffalo drum, and I was under, swimming in a trance as my soul traveled the three upon threefold path. It’s a Valknut, it’s the ladder of runes, it’s just a poem. Yggdrasil blossomed and froze and all there was was the Light Elves, the Dark Elves, Freyr – or was it Balder? – being buried by the squirrel with curling golden locks, pale as death, to fructify the Earth.

“I am the Tree.”

“I am its guardian.”

“I plant seeds of Yggdrasil through all the Nine Worlds.”

Squirrels never shut up, do they? Neither do I. Perhaps the first poet was a squirrel spinning a story over a newly born sprout, urging it to grow, for though fierce and silly, Ratatosk is a gardener.

He chitters in my ear. The Blue Heron comes and says: impatience, but it is not my message. I get Odin again and again. Pretty soon I’ll be singing Ansuz and firing witchlight from my palms.

The visions soften, I awaken, but the Tree is still sentinel over my wanderings.

The drum stills.

Behind every regent, a powerful woman. Behind every warrior, a witch. Behind every dead man, animals planting their corpses into new life in another world. Behind every king, a queen he worships.

But I could just be bullshitting, for I am a squirrel.

Mists of Memory

Your heart is a poem and it thrums with mist
the script of angels unfurls like God’s yarn
whispering to me of your bountiful harvests.
I clutch your trembling pines to me, mountains
are your love, tall and mighty, fire in the sky,
night lights of aurora borealis where we dance,
we are snow, we are ice, we are dripping icicles
frozen candlelight and a kiss of hoary red roses,
your poem is one of travel, wandering, seeking
and your heart is a cavern of light and snakes
so hold me close, and let me lose myself in you.

When Your Heart is a Bird

Come quickly, love, come staunch my wound with heather.
I am bleeding out my song onto curling mountain laurels.
Lift me to the bane bridge, love, carry me through roses.
I have not visited the valleys of my youth for many moons.
Kiss me, love, my soul is a meadowlark, swiftly fleeting
and I cannot stay, I could never be yours, I must fly away.

Praying

You’re down on your knees sucking Mammon’s greedlust,
bathing in the blood of priests selling indulgences,
swallowing gold and burnt masterpieces into prisons
where beautiful things will wither in your dark gut.

Your black hair is wet now, and you swim in feathers
the most beautiful of canaries, they make you tremble,
contemplating how best to snap golden wings is bliss,
for women to you are dolls best broken, best burned.

You covet the ineffable, sweet dripping marrow, bruises
bring truth to the skin, so you bite me hard, harder,
red blossoms along with purple wine and yellow bile,
why do I just lay there terrified? Because I am dead.

I died the first time you touched me, I wept rivers
of pearls, got trapped in skiffs adrift on the Styx,
fangs were my truth, cruel cages and serrated limbs,
maybe I could have left you the first day by just
saying no.

Saying no.

Keep breaking girls, they are not my concern, past
my care, for finally I have a spine from your curse –
your claws ripped me apart and revealed diamonds
my white beacon blinded you, and I flew far away.

Keep jerking off to your ruined women, stay away.
Comatose poisoned madrigals best suit you, not me.
I was never meant for you, I am not Hell’s tithe,
my name is not Tam Lin, no, I am Janet, I saved
myself, myself, I am my own, and you are just
a bad memory.

So pray for salvation but know you don’t deserve it.

Turn up the flames and roast your desires to ash.

Drown in the bodies of your toys, I cannot see you
from my perch in Heaven, and you are just all Hell.

Just an aborted creation of Sophia whose mother
abandoned your Demiurge rot at birth, no solace
will be had in my arms, not anymore, so change,
beg for me, but never in a million scars will I
return.