red dust and the disintegrating woman.
outbound, freefall, three AM.
black dust woman, copper bracelets with
fiber scars, sang sweet. song of battle,
rush of adrenaline. just a bit more, whisper
though the wire, this
mechanical love and the fire to catch.

well, I'm here and gone again, she said,
the wings of times gone past, the
turning wheel. everything new is old
again, and I saw you - the window -
at three AM.

live free or die, or lost and found, run
westbound, northbound, 95, engine howling
long as she can make it. just a bit more
dust in the making, just set it on fire,
watch it burn.

and I said: I can be free, or as free as
I can make it. metal sweet and fire at will.
gimme the dust and the copper and fiber, gimme
salvation and her face - civilization, a
bright and feral thing.
[Error: unknown template qotd]

sun sets, winter comes
trees rattle like icy swords
dead things in dead land

Happy Solstice.
Written after thinking about the idea of publishing small chapbooks full of spells, as opposed to the usual all-inclusive religion book which tends to involve lectures on morality, the obligatory Standard Wiccan Rituals, poorly-researched bits of mythology, and a few useful scraps one can adapt.

It's a pity there's not a market, I could make a tidy sum off of things like this.

spells - ten a dozen
ruled paper, blue and
white. pomegranate seeds
at midnight. black ribbons
around doorknobs. perfect
rhyming, each metaphor
select. only quality.
promises nothing, snake
oil with spidery runes
handwritten benedictions
silver-plated good fortune
hail mari of the storms, jesus
christ of the cross, spirits
in the wire - demons in
poorly-copied pentagrams

ten a dozen, gilded covers -
scented with frankincense, wrapped.
cheap imitation silk, cheap
art store ribbon - benedictions
cheap, and moral free.

this one is stamped with shells
and tassels, this one is black,
unadorned. this one will bring
faltering lovers home, this one
for summoning things unnamed.

snake oil, be sure - immoral,
but dreaming - just a dozen. no
advice, no star-signs, no bowing to
pagan gods - merely ten a dozen -
each one hand-scribed - and signed,
sealed - delivered. ten a dozen
and nothing more.
poetry )
poetry )
wrath comes bearing lilies in the
green-wrapt dawn, wings bronze against a
newborn sky - blue lilies, crowned in
emeralds. before mine eyes - revelation.
"set up thy altar" she commands, "set up
ten thousand altars in My name and hold
all before Me. in wormwood be betrayed,
redeemed and cast in shadow - in doubt,
be sanctified. in My name, be praised."

she dissolved with dawn, wings coral
against an absinthe-strewn dawn, ivory
filaments against the green of sea and
foam salty upon my lips - "drink of Me
and be redeemed" - and in every corner
was wrought the smallest sign - a book,
a stone. a half-burnt candle, perfume
for wrists - a pendant hung from the
curving corner - masks upon the windowpane.

"come man, come" she cried, Desire, and
ordered Her altar be set with ginkgo
leaves and roses "let him come, let him
come" - a canvas strewn with petals and
candles and Her fair face - and miracles
were begot in the washroom, in the corner,
within the halls of learning - a thousand
tiny gods who gave praise to Her name. and
so it was again. "come!" She cried, and so
it was.

her wings were not of which I speak but
emerald, seafoam, verdigris, absinthe-stricken
I gazed - but sober too, for She cried out to
my victory - "come, daughter, come" and raised
me up, bade me drink of Her cup - and then the

nothing more.
the girl in your tapestry
is not the girl in real life.
grimy and less ordinary
living and striving.

to be more than she is
the queen of the swords
or the catcher of fairies
and lover of shades.

and the face in the threads
is impossibly lovely
the heart in her chest
is impossibly pure.

the girl in the morning
stitches her face and
paints her lips, like the
weaverman's girl.

pinnacles we cannot reach
the women we cannot know
the ideal we cannot be
things in the mind's eye.

chase the dreams in sleep
and never touch that face
the stitched imagining is never
so true as the flesh and blood.
Your eyeteeth love, I would tear
Your sweet eyeteeth from you,
Hands, love, your hands white and fine
Needles, my love, I would take to those hands.
Teeth, my sweet, I would take them from you,
And your fangs, your fangs, a necklace I'll make.

That smile, my dear, the crease of your lips-
I'd eat, devour, I would drink them, my dear.
And your cheeks, are like apples, reddened and sweet-
Consume, I'd consume them, like currants so fine.
Your nose, the flares, that takes in the smells-
I'd take it, the bridge, the flare, your scent.

Your breastbone my sweetling, ribs in your chest-
Like bastions, like ivory, I'd strip them from you.
The sinews, your sinews that strenghten your aim,
I'd pluck them like ribbons, like strings of a harp.
Your heart, my heartling, your heart I will take-
And eat it; yes eat it - soul and cold sinew.
haruspex: babylon (Default)
( Aug. 20th, 2007 12:58 am)
Here you are, come by again-
I put some tea on and
Then again, put out a place for you.
Nowhere to go and nothing to be,
Thought I'd see if you'll visit me soon.

Just another short stop on another dirt road.
Some time for my tea and some time for my books.
But sure as the sunrise, you're gone in the night-
Lights in the driveway, then brakes in the dark.

And here you've come around again-
Well, the tea is warm and I don't mind.
And funny how there's always rain and I'm here.
Maybe I'll listen - but then maybe you won't-
Suppose tea and a book is just tea and a book.

Just- here's to the rain, and here's to the tea.
And the dust on the road that leaves me behind.
Here's to the friends that we were once before.
The sound of the rain. Call me from the road,
I said, and knew somehow - you won't.
muttering, sputtering, words
splash out of fucked-up heads and - splat!
hit the page. drivel from
broken hearts, lover's
quarrels, imagined
slights. insanity makes for
good poetry. grand art, and
the sane boggle and fiddle with
words - fucking about with the meter and
alien alliteration, timing rhymes. incon-
cievable! poetry is best left to the
dreamers, the mad and the lost.
poetry is like a dream- pretty
but the once, then -
fading and ridiculous, like
worn-out children's clothes.
sweet, forgotten, they moulder in
old notebooks, rotten hard drives - a
sonnet languishes under a pot of tea.
and the poet, imagining, dreaming,
ceases. and grows.
haruspex: babylon (Default)
( May. 2nd, 2007 12:06 am)
so let the night unfold, and
the stars fall down, begin

winter's child passes, frost
melts, snow steams, we pass

steel on steel, the song of
summer, changing years draw us

let the steel sing, and howl
in the night, the strange
engines of dreaming.

hours endless, the big
machine, turn away:
I have forgotten.
Screw sunscreen.

And for that matter, pay attention to folksongs. You might need them some day.

In conclusion, have some random poetry stuff.
divining by pomegranates )
fall is time for
bonefire, coldfire,
scales furled, wings
furled, the weight of

(and fading echoes)

here we danced,
here we sang
down heaven.
always remember.


sing the storm no
longer. spiral home.
the north wind brings
voices, faces, fog
brings phantoms, and
you'll pay the piper well.

(and always remember)

her voice, echoing in your
throat, your heart,
madness and fire in the blood.
seek the ground, turn your
eyes from heaven, and
remember the fall.
haruspex: babylon (lady of babylon)
( May. 22nd, 2006 10:03 am)
here, between the idea and
the form, murmurs the voice of
there, between the silver lines
and black ink, reality rustles,
in the shadowed places, we
turn aside, lest the light
blind us.
Inanna murmurs, turns in
her sleep. we play with divine
storms gather, then disperse,
falcons and eagles caught in
we do not think, do not imagine
dreaming, we do not see ideas with
here, between the idea and
the form, rings the voice of the
there, between the ink-wrought
lines, we catch glimpses of mystery
and turn away.
time takes a drink from the river,
raises his eyes to the sky.
"how long as it been," he muses,
"since we've raised our eyes to the east?"
"how long has the dream lay sleeping,"
"and the dreamer cold in the north?"

"and we remember the older sayings,"
"how lives are to be had in the west."
"and the beggars and kings,"
"and tinkers and things,"
"pursued gold and a wide open field."

"but we who have looked o'er history,"
"may find ourselves moving eastwards,"
"for old friends may fade but not wither,"
"old dreams die slower than others."
"blood's always thicker than water,"
"and I've got a new dream for chasing."
i know you with your
black clad mania, your
fashionably worn insanity,
your wanna-be badass
gimlet eyes, your teeter-totter
beliefs. you dove head in, then
ran like the wind, broken child,
knife-thin man, promises broken,
haruspex: babylon (Default)
( Oct. 5th, 2005 11:08 pm)
in the winter,
the vines of innocence wither
and fall, grapes dying on fallow ground.

in the frost,
we ask the questions that have
no answers, why and where and how.

in the darkness
it is not the light that drives
us onwards, but the fear of darkness.

ice dreams melt in the hot summer
and the shadows of dreaming
cannot withstand the harsh light of day.
turn to me
cast your cold scales and
turn. and wind, strangling
sliding, turning, and
fuck my mind.
go ahead. i await you with
slitted eyes, carrion breath
rotten and sweet, and wishing
to sink and bleed and arise,
glorious from your ashes
naked in the fire,
and armored in your failure.


haruspex: babylon (Default)


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