๐ท๐ผ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โ ๐ ๐ ๊ ๐ ๊ ๐๐ โ
With autumn comes the first snow, blowing
under the torch light, and stuttering as it falls. Drifting for hours idly onto tangled trees it bends and knits and tears under persistent lapping.
Snow which signals a year of anger. That the
Great God makes noise in the heavens,
killing the plants and droves of deer and
moose and fish. Fish which sink into the lake
where it all began.
Feeding the sunken head and freeing him
from his snaring, mossy reeds. The charred,
decapitated mask of an ancient chief now
rises, bubbling in ooze and slime.
Who flies above the ice and ground in freezing whirlwinds, to curse the land again and remind us of our transgressions.
Flee, lest we be swallowed in his whipping
gaze, and buried into ice and stone. Buried
awake in solitude for all eternity, left staring
at the first blue flakes of autumn snow.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ท๐ท๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
๏น ๊ช ๐ ๐ ๊ ๐ ๊ท ๏น
Over five bodies do I stand, and I wipe my
eyes as I cry you only. My beads of light,
now spread across the treeโs table, sat
empty as the laying snow.
And I kneel to you as I look in my heart,
seeking with my pouring hands that once
held you, your mouths to wipe with linen.
All eyes clear windows of violet deserts,
old hurt, and the dusk of a boiling white
sand in a flaming white lake.
Still your bodies are as cold as the great
pines; the flame of my fire not heat nor light,
simply a pillar in-front of five cathedrals of
cold stones.
For the old sea hag Bakwas had stolen
youโs off, as I sat in the shadows of rocks.
His taloned claw, dragging you and feeding
you drops from his winter pool.
O how your bodies tremble like the lake,
and my eye probes your bones like the sun,
but there is no more wind inside you. Only
the sound of needles falling.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ท๐ธ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โญ ๐ โ ๐ แพ ๐ ว ๐๐ โญ
Speak hath ye watched the horizon for
countless hours, eyes awatch over the
abysmal sea. Dreamless in uninvaded
guard as the blood-red orange sets again
and again and again over infinite waters.
Speak hath ye by the light of a cold
candle risen before the stars hath left
the sky, to sit with frozen bone in keels
and had black waves fill yer mouth with
putrid brine.
Now speak hath ye from the thunders
of the upper deep heard the wailings of children. Or, the cries of a maiden. Bleak
and making yer black blood clod.
Ay, speak hath ye seen wooly arm, burst
from the sea and salt foam, teeming with
weed and cockle shells, crash and burst
the bilge of manโs chest with smothering,
steaming tempest floods.
Speak hath ye seen the coral claw
which feeds on the scantiling of souls,
spouting the sea with chum.
Speak hath ye bear witness to Kushtaka.
Speak hath ye dare wade the waters.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
ำ ๐ฏ๐ก ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โบ ๐ โพ ๐ ๊ ๐ ๐ ๊ ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐๐ ๊ โบ แตแต ยน
On the mountain rest the day; yet no
Sun for she sleeps oft, buriโd in veils of
pearl-gray dipping luridly westward.
And behind them comes the sea,
pouring while the thunder racks the
leaves.
Children, tracing patterns on the pane
rest idle, freezing whilst hay folk ply
the rake. Faster! faster!
Yet one man lives in freedom, be it vain:
The Hunter. Breathed from waste, his
plough unbroke: one trusted rifle and
his steed.
Together they ride, crossing frontier lines,
Crack! Crack! Cracks the reigns.
Fighting crisp air but led by hides and
richest rump, he groans in ecstasy of
death.
But the hunter is not alone. For among
poles of towering pine, the Long Black
Being stands the highest. Watching.
Brooding.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ผ ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
๊ ๐๐๐ต แฒ ๐๐๐ต๐โโ๐๐ ๊ แตแต ยน
Oโer the black furrows oโ field hangs a
moon, she gently caressing her lissome
ear - rapt as to discern the quiet
rumbling woop of a dark, swift sorcery
from the rustling foliage.
One impure, unlike her moonbeams,
which dwells in the absence of light.
A foul stench which lingers betwixt
the standing oaks and sabres of grass.
Stinging and prickly like the nettle.
โO Tree of mine, O Tree of mine, have
you seen who steals my bairn?โ she
asks.
โNo mโamโ says the oak, โbut I feel their
crawlings like pests. Corpses strewn
across my fingers like sores, nippings
on my hands like rats while I restโ
โO Tree of mine, I shall note whoever did
such awful thingโ she replied, โwho curl
such life like petals in winter. For they
spangle the bands of this earth with
depravity.โ
But she knew not of Skudakumoochโฆ
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ฟ ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โ ๊ ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ ๊ โ
May lamplight gleaming pale yellow
illustrate the subtlety of shadows; them,
drawn by the willows to trace the tailings
of a broken stone-walled pathway.
A trail so bleak as darkness descended,
that you lose yourself among the groves.
Unfamiliar orchards sagging in to drape
the sky with leaves and ferns. And the
cobbled stones become the bones of
time.
In this grove of softly blowing tendrils
& your cold & aching breathes, crawls
desire herself. Laying down among
the ferns until your amber haze passes
her by.
She is the disembodied hand of fate,
left scurrying toward torches like her
only beacon.
She, a sail of silk, caressing your shoulder
this way & that in the manner of your
goings.
But do not trust her promised tappings,
for as much as she clenches to provide
counsel, she too will snatch your
innocence if she sees fits.
Leaving all behind but the snuff of a
light.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ท ๐ฐ๐ฑ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โน ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ ๐ โน แตแตยน
With which the days grow short, so too
must the night expand. Fragrant with the
gardenโs final trim, and smoke from the
hearth where fellows sit in dour.
As this darkness grows, it swallows.
Clenching, constricting, and consuming
whole the flesh and soul of a compatriot.
Their body now a vessel burst! and left
corroding.
From this husk laid bare in front of
weeping loved ones, a residue will flow.
Remnants of what man has been
unable to bring into universal harmony.
Winds which speak of resuscitation
and stir about the brown and rotted
leaves; making ripples on the pond.
In search of past possessions.
We are not the only passengers of this
cold night, so do not speak of the dead.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ท๐ป๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โ แฒ โก ๊ ๐ ๊ด ๐๐ ๐ โ แตแตยฒ
With mountain torch the ogre would set
the world ablaze, despairing light with
black smoke. And as the creatures fell,
chin in their whimpering hand, he would
snatch the terrified sun.
Gnashing it between teeth โtill useless
light fell to the ground like clipped wings,
and bloody vipers poured from his lips.
Its bones cracking like bull whips โtill the
burning mustang would be no more.
And all would bow to him.
But the clever badger heard of this rumbling
plan, and so she dug a hole. To which she
told the ogre โThis is where the sun retreats
each day. Surely you can catch it hereโ and
the ogre followed.
Down into the earth from whence he was
spat, and as he cursed in realization he was
buried. Entombed in boulders by the clever
badger for all eternity.
But, some say he still digs, envious of the
sun, and once upon a burning night his
scratchings can still be feltโฆ
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ธ๐บ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
๐ ล ส ล ฦฆ ว ฦข ๐
Lovers who recall their moonlit moment
dream of forests fleeced in snow, tender
and soft like bosom. But to those who
find themselves alone in bowed and
wintered woods only get one terrifying
companion:
A dancer, long and lean and boney. Who pirouettes on her boreal stage -the land of
the Intrepid; an oasis in the north. Frolicking among the hairs of birch and aspen which dagger boggy tundra.
A girl, locked behind her antler mask, and
swaying half in this world, half not. Leaping
only in the periphery of the dejected, starved of love, until their eyes should mingle.
But O, her love is violence and lust sadistic.
Her touch a kind of war; her hand a skewer.
Stripping skin like bark, rough-hewn, ripping at aortas โtill blood it soars and is absorbed into the lichen.
She is no bloom of adoring charity, just hemlock. A curse of our desires.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ธ๐ป๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โง แ แฒ๐๐ แ โง
So telling are the harvest leaves of fading
color & the dying wick of foolish heat. A
return about the snow in which we clump
together for a little warmth.
Does memory not feed the balmy mind,
though? Has it too been swept all those
years ago like we were from its roaring,
ivory garden?
For the cold & empty margins of this
world are our birthright! Made from tidal
choas, & given into boundless, milky
fields of tidiness by our Mother.
โTill it was ravaged by our greedy siblings.
Canine hominids who in her fear, were set
adrift to starve & returned thrashing.
Digging naked claws of red into our tender
Mother, devouring in her surrender.
No longer shall we fear the moonโs cool wall,
or the starving tongues & lips which live
within it. We must strip past our tribal heat, & the slow trickles of our feeble sweat.
We must avenge our pale Mother this season, & render them into pelts.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ธ๐ผ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โฅท ๐ แ ๐ ๐ ๊ ๐ ๐ โ ๐ โฅ
Now I wish to wordfully reveal a certain kind
oโ fish that oftโ encountered in the later, bundled months of the year. That run with
salmon but is a remorseless emperor all his own; perilous and grim.
A floater whose aspect like leprous stone,
crumble orโ the water like the cliff into the sea. That gaze upon brave-hearted fisherman, setting their sea-steed free into forever.
A body at the mouth oโ confluence. Risen
above and turned away from the sun to
reveal two fox heads and twin fluked tail. Horned and cracked by whipping tongues which lick canoes. Three stomachs and a
serrated ridge which run the length orโ
its body, And last, fanged paws which break
your backs and crack your oars so that you
may no longer govern your soul.
Spit your blood and shine your crookโd brows, but there be magic in the water built to slay and conquer ALL men.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
๐ป ๐ฑ๐ฅ ๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ข โโโโโโโโโโโโโโฎ
โ ๐ ๊ก โ ๐ต ๐ ๐ ๐ ๊ โ
Hunked on a gnarled bench of stone
I wait. My throne of peridot all I have left
to carry me. It is my stoop of conquest.
Woe, for my dominion is squandered even
so. Trampled upon by unworthy folk who
are but milksop. Their eyes unforged, glistening with tears; gouged into red.
Then into black.
I dig my nails into their face such as the
grey horizon runs into brush. Where
the geese call steadily like a horn utters
its dull note.
Oh to bear their wings, for though gods
made me atlas-footed, my bones
were lopped before the winds could lift
them. Withering among prancing fools.
So cleft my hoof buries into the scruff of
their necks, drifting โtill allโs left is the
wheezings like a geldingโs nostrils.
Then naught, save the rushing acres of
dry corn and shedded leaves.
Sorrow lifting as the late light turns my
uneven mole-gnawed meadows,
and I regain my throne.
#30dod
โฐโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โ
