A flower from your gardens, Paradisaical rose.
You in buckskin, barefoot, wings of whispers,
sunlight hits your skin, flaming sword drawn.
We are in a white marble and gold silk palace.
We are in the fields of France, the Crusades.
You are wild with blood, you are peaceful light.
Golden Eagle, Fanged Lion, raging smoky wildfire.
Wrath of Heaven, Prince of Princes, halo crown.
I am dead and dreaming in your arms, alive and
starving and empty for you, rain down on me
with blessed embers and good, sturdy red clay.
Earth and fire, water and wind, spirit and power.
The kaleidoscope of you is a wind chime in a
hurricane, a king without a throne, ephemeral
yet solid as Petra cliffs, holy and renowned.
Bless me Archangel, lips melt me like snow.
You came to me on the first winds of summer, riding gold.
Hallowed footprints in loam you left, hands in the silt –
you painted me with mud and gley and rust, and I was Earth.
And you were the Horned God, antlers like tines, skin supple
wood, hair like wildfire leaves, oh how I ached to be tilled.
And when your rains came, my parched heart opened.
Scarlip and the Old Bastard go way back, sweet-tooth,
see them dancing in the rain under an abandoned train,
watch them scooping sparrow eggs to fry up for food,
they cast runes to woo the maidens, Loki with elvin
songs on his guitar of ash wood, Odin the shaman drum.
Blood brothers, mud brothers, river brothers, stone.
They mixed lips and wine and gore in a damp summer,
a ragtime summer, and they wander the Nine Worlds,
only to find crows, ravens, vultures, snakes, wolves.
Flamehair and Greyhair. Alfather and Father of Monsters.
One sage, one shady, none saint. Deal us your finest
cigars, bartender, another glass, we toast our kinship
on this darkest winter night, memories play like storms.
Just take a peek at Sleeping Beauty’s silhouette through the gossamer window,
the dragon prays for just a taste of moon girl and pink wine blossom breasts,
his fire is unrequited lust, for comatose madrigals cannot embrace red flames,
instead those of us poisoned by love in sicksleep bower dream of infinity under
thorns, our tower rooms are freezing with internal snow that ices our solitude,
my skin is milk of the dead, my wyrm takes my unmoving hips and lifts up stars,
snaking wyvern so sly in assessing a spindle’s used goods, but as he cops a feel, the prince comes with flaming sword and fury, even the downfall of dragons
begins with a single question: what if the princess could love me? What if I was
man, monster rid of the cruel curse of hermitude, and his watch over his charge,
my arsenic jello limbs, is prone to a wandering mind, so though no true love will awaken me, a peepshow underneath hitched silver skirts satiates the beast.
Ottar my boar, my bridegroom, my steed!
Spill your hoof-blood on ruby red leaves,
ride on through autumnal romance, seek
ancestors in the stars of Hyndla’s eyes,
our union is one of hero and shieldmaiden,
brave the draugr and dokkalfar, your tusks
root for hidden Balder in dying sunlight,
the long days are coming, my steed, rut
with me as Syr, Sow, in field and furrow.
Trample the grass and know your legend.