Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Loki's Rasped Lament

Beneath a pinioned rock that thrice was cut
I lay embound in iron chains congeal'd
from visc'ra torn with teeth from one to son
another mine, while I was forc'd to watch.
To watch! To watch! The flesh was ripped apart!
No tears I wept to give my captors gain.
Yet I, in sooth, on head of mine : full guilt.
Full guilt! My captor's sons I set at throat
with dart so venom'd, bane was quickened sure!
The greatest God who white and lily stepped
innocent son, celestial boon and blessing
on ever, ay, and always earth this age.
This age, golden age, any age to come,
I killed. Not my own hand : his dear belov'd
brother strong I trick'd and gave the arrow
just dipp'd in mistl'toes witch-enchanted brews.
Unknownst he took so trusting me and shot --
he shot! oh never such a shot was seen!
To melt the golden smiles down-dripp'd regal
blood! and earth touching, sprout St. John's Wort bloom'd,
while doom'd most blessed loved God of old.
The tears spat out ocean froth like curses.
Cries so terrible and pitiful from Gods!
My spite and vengeance spoiled then by tears mine own.
And laughter, laughter under palm of hand
while slink'd I far, far thence with quickened haste.
Oh, time hath its tricks, and I, over time,
in my own trap -- a net I made -- was caught!
Then caught and bound was struggling brought 'neath ground.
Here lies the locked one : see? These chains, my sons'
own guts, his very flesh now father-binds!
The deep and darkened ir'ny'f anger'd Gods!
So say they all in sooth doth hate me full.
All life! All living things that took their breath
from bless'd, beloved, broad-hearted Baldur.
He's dead. I'm dead. We're all all dead-deadened
by hand of mine, by mind of mine now curs'd!
When earth you feel ashak'd and tremble, roar,
you feel, O Embla's kin, my raging wail-remorse!
Shall I, so craz'd, at end of times, be burst
and wolf-army leading lead the hopeless fight
against the Gods in wild vengeance slaughter?
So fateful, I, necessity-endrawn,
might self give sacrifice to end my kin's
long and wretched ogre mayhem, which landeth
even blessed me -- (by Gods) -- in chains.
And even then upon my Heimdall deathbed,
with thought of me a secret agent sly,
whose own deceit I trick flatter meself,
will I, oh then, but catch a single wink
of single eye, whose pawn I once again
be prov'd to be, by master of the tricks
that I, apprentice claim to folly be?
These maddened thoughts taunt in the cold venom.
And I, a partner once, of espionage,
be pawn-partnered once again by he
who wizard-wonder old man love once was?
Sigyn, bowl me from serpent's poison'd thoughts.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Sing Not Of Surt

O Sol, sing not of Surt
whose blackened hands burnt
by sun's fires, blackened
the beauty of dawning day.
Whatever hands may beauty craft
do crumble when those hands
the same do crush the light.
Rise from falling fall, be fierce,
O Sol, and sear the soiled hands
of Surt again, that all
may feel your blazing bright,
and awe, in imitation,
striding tall with fiery strength.

Her Light Like the Thunder

Her light is like the thunder,
thrown off like brazen brands of burning spears
which pierce the neb'lous shields of wicked spirits.
This light is for all,
that none need fear the fiends.
This torch She, the sun-carrying one
carries bright as charioteer
'cross the daily heavens.
And she is wrath turned regal
each burning moment
on beam on blessed beam of lawful light
disperse the night of evil shadow.
She rides the reins as fire's valkyrie.
Heaven's warrior, sky's flame's maiden,
more-than-formidable queen of bluest arches.
Her many fingers fiercely point
the paved path of good,
yet ill she all incinerates,
merciless, to those who mercy lack.
The light of her holy warmth is not to be gainsayed.
She is a Lady, She is a Soldier of the searing pyre
whose blazes march the paths of the pure.
Feel her phoenix-flame and shudder,
shake off all remaining dust of ill
and worship. Worship fire of heaven's seas'
charging maiden, Mani's kin.
She is the day's angry benevolence,
the evening's artist in scarlets.
Make way for the golden magma-crowned Queen of Day.
Hail Sol!

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Devotion is a Flame

Devotion's a flame
offered ash to vapor.
The cold black echoes
with twinkled torches.

I give ode
to the Wod-Master's wild
who round-table roar
from heaven's meadows.

The long strip of milk
dappled pointillist on onyx,
the plank for gold-toothed guardian
of warriors, once
in world wrapped up a babe,
swans pulling upon shield
lifted grain to king-teach
the craftless.

This dancing tongue erupts
from hearth's holy mouth,
calligraphs of rainbow leap,
and seers see the deepest
mysteries within.

What is offered
to the log's life smoked
and swallowed
by the sun's small spark
received, the star-scaffold's
ward carries over.
Thus those desperate
whispers over recels
heard in the halls of the high.

Stretched out o'er
that long band 'tween,
the ether is formed by prayers,
and ram-horned holy one,
with wish, shall offer
all the echoes of the ancients.
Hear prayer pooling up
in ripples. Pray.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

On Freya's Folded Wings Will I Find Love

Let the axes slip,
I have already fallen upon the four winds,
and thrown myself onto the air,
surfed the waves of roiled atmosphere,
rode round the rim of the globed toy of trickster
powers, where cackles at the thralled
gullibles tossed off nobility
to create their sin-parties ;
and I have seen the cynic multitude bow
before the altars of greed and deceit,
each professing their own worship before the eyes of many,
yet in sooth give up unto nether powers
seeded sordid so long ago
so that those bound and exiled
have indeed bodies beyond reckon.
And wisdom is indeed but consolation
for the noble in a world where oaths have no value.
I throw myself upon the winds, and witness
the cascades of simultaneous sacrilege,
the festivals of rupture and treason,
the ghosts of those not yet given up
yet hollow held by but a thread still hanging
moaning and abandoned in the ether,
and surrounded by powers foreign making plea,
promise for price of love and value thrown down.
I give nod towards the great gods of this age,
astounded, mock-begrudging admire,
their sheer plenitude and debased prevalence.
Yet mine air breath self-sent, wind-wisdom carried,
go out falcon-feather oared, wings smooth cutting air,
to love given up. Find woman loving woman, exult ;
Find male loving male, exult ; find true love in kiss
of man and woman, exultation ; for whereever love
finds homage in this abandoned-to-awful world,
my soul may find peace.
I see the severed spirits halved
of maidens and young men killed not
by crafted weapons, but black and awful overpower,
and soaring, wish-seek to guide them to the Sun's royal fields,
and flock to shining golden-cleansed follow
that blazing, innocent queen 'cross heavens,
restored to that which was stolen from them.
And my spirit soars to fly,
fleeing sole habitation in viking flight,
returning home only to alight, and speak
what sooth my soul hath seen,
in dreamy outgoings.
Around this rock rimmed by fog,
few follow ancient Gods of good ;
lost many, overawed by immense and monstrous,
bow to Giants, crushed in adulation.
And I see the circus but will call it no festival,
and I mind the madness, but weep at Baldur's fall.
Beyond on Freya's folded wings will I find love.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

She Called It "Borrowing"

She called it "borrowing", this daughter of Freya, this priestess-naïf with long locks of burgundy, and spoke of it so casually it was as if an everyday experience. "You know, when you are looking at a sparrow on a tree-branch, and suddenly you are inside the sparrow's body, looking back at you, and the sparrow is in you looking at you, the sparrow...". So obvious, so matter of fact, just-so, and plain as day. And my young baffled mind, furiously intrigued, but not knowing, skeptical yet immediately enchanted. And called "borrowing", for the body of each "borrowed" the consciousness of the other.

Was she able to say this, was she able to see this, because she was broken, because, like Freya in her tower, her hair too was tied in knots, and eyes far-away to escape the anguish of unwanted assault? Yes, perhaps. Perhaps. It may be in this world that the broken are those gifted to seethe, for spirit boils and bubbles within them in great pathos and desperation.

I had never heard of any such thing, not, at least, spoken of with such mundane certainty, such common sense borrowed from the stars. But then I read of witches, who told Inquisitors that they transformed into rabbits, and mice, and cats, and feathered things, and it sunk : this was something archetypal. This was not but a fairytale, but an ecstatic experience common to many in the world. And fairytales perhaps were but the informal scriptures of this experiential spirituality.

Then it was that I prayed for enchantment, oh, that one might experience beneath an old, gnarled tree in the woods, losing one's mind, and all sense of time, and touch those deeper, stranger roots where magic happens, not as a manipulation of the material world, but as a sense of wonder and awe more incredible than one had ever hoped.

So it was I fell in love, and was cursed and blessed with the gift of enchantment for which I prayed. It was at this time a book fell into my hands, one I had seen before but passed by. In a New York used bookstore, Hans Peter Duerr's Dreamtime fell into my hands, and it spoke of everything I had heard and hoped for. This was the enchantment for which I had wished, affirmed in words, etched with philosophical erudition and scholarly power.

Oh, that love, love that could marvel, love that stretched and strained one to the breaking point, love that chased after hundreds of miles, from one town to another. Love full of the anguish of the cuckold's horns, Freyr's antlers with which one discovers one's manhood. Manhood in the otherhood, by emptying out one's humanity, into the earth, into the anguish, into that surrender I heartily call abandon. There and then I knew, for I felt my satyr's legs hairy reach down with hooves to the salty, dusty, hay-smelling earth. This is my mate. This is the one for whom my hormones are cellular spells cast creation in the first primeval soups. She is the Earth speaking to me.

Odr and Freya, the one after the other, and reversed, again and again. In those long voyages seeking, tasting that rich red wine of melancholy upon which the greatest poets are drunk, but beyond, begin to see, I, I began melting, transforming, tentatively tasting what she called "borrowing". An oak meadow of golden-brown savannah south of San Francisco. There I felt myself becoming the entire field, my soul stretched out to its very limits, and I was one. There I experienced myself as the oak. Can you imagine? To feel it within one's very body, not an imagination, but a physical, kinesthetic experience of becoming the tree, feeling oneself as the bark and heartwood, boughs and leafed branches. Oh for certain it was that now I was broken that I could so feel. I had asked for enchantment, and was given that broken heart through which alone the mind of the mundane may be opened. I fell into that Ophelia-space she so readily drifted within, and there I tasted the seethe of her seidthe.

Oh, then to Deleuze and Guattari, not to chase after postmodernisms, but seeking words deranged and wild, as Rimbaud turned and twisted into philosophy, that might speak such strange derangements love had brought me. For you see, I had been gifted with an elfin gift, a light rarely able to linger in this world, and that was the realization that though I belonged to her, I yet did not belong, and thus, I belonged where I did not belong. It was, in other words, the knowledge that in impossibles our highest essence is to be found, for in contradiction there is light as like unto no other. (An Odinic realization!) And thought is not that which has been thought before. It is rather the puzzle in the paradox, the struggle within the riddle's contradiction, the careful thrashing within the tarry cat's cradle whereby one struggles to be free, and join together what resists synthesis.

There is yet a catch to such love and such madness. Where love coheres in the impossible, it cannot long be sustained in this world so intolerant of contradiction, so enamored of resolution. What may dance in the wave equation is so far beyond its collapse upon which the atoms of this world are built! So you might touch eternity, you might know the transform of the beloved beyond all forms, and yet, in time, it might pass on, disperse, and be lost. The love of your life.

And then you might spend years dazed, longing, desperate to bring it back, like the shepherd in the tale who once having seen the Fairie, wastes away from thereonin, for nothing within this mundane world can ever compare to such Exhaustive, Inexhaustible Beauty. Oh, say Deadly Beauty! Yet tales are warnings ; I would not waste away, nor would I let waste such wonder. For when you are given a gift, you are also given a debt, one that must be repaid, and when it is magic, with interest.

There are lessons others may provoke within us, but it is we who must claim them. Another can only evoke for so long. Then, if we find that which has been sparked to be of any worth, it is we who must find a way to make it live within us. Such could be the task of many years, or even decades. But it defines the very difference between the diligent and the lazy. Such is a devotion that may well be called religious, for did you not know that the genius is but that fairy-fylgia the Norns and Gods assigned to us from places more divine?

Her name meant "light", her name meant "lands of bliss beneath the earth", her name meant "broad pastures", and these were each true names. And oh, within her form, did Freya speak most freely. If ever flesh were epiphany, if cells might portals be that open the gateways to spirits' call, she was, she was. And all began, some foolish young maiden, with simple talk of "borrowing". Oh, simple indeed!

Monday, August 23, 2010

For That I Resist You, I Love You

For that I resist you, I love you. For that I shall not sway e'en to your overaweing charm, I declare my loyalty, through a stance that separates myself from thee. For that I stand apart, from this very stance, I say, I love thee. For that I nurture that anger you birth within me, from the very heart of principle offended, I hold that which is highest in thee high, and shall not cease to salute. But from the very ground of my own being, which cannot be abandoned, not even for that love I hold.

For that I resist you, I love you. For you merit the highest love, and that love I give comes with rebuke, for that which is less than strong. O beloved, I would have you tall with might, I would have your arms bicep'd and flexed, with fist raised tall against the age's holy terrors, for I hold you that high, higher than any cower or crouch which you might in fear's moment timid give. There are those lines where I cannot give, where the cord hath no slack, and I may not sway to please, not even thee.

Look yonder upon seaside cliff, there on that peak I stand defiant, and my aired fist is a salute to thee, a salute which says I shall not come down. O love, I know I myself merit rebuke, but think thee not this breast does not itself whip in each Delling's scion sail across skies? I am my own highest critic, and whatever strong satire your bridled tongue might wish is uttered more loudly within, and so I too grow by rebuke, for where I have wilted, I have failed the blossom, and where I have melted, I have refused the strong edge of stone, and I alone must answer these irrefutable charges. How mighty indeed these taunting indictments, that only the strong counsel of my soul's elfin spirit may eke good defense in that court to come! I shall not let my failures lie fallow, but lift them goad to mock and make me more, for I have no excuse to be less than strong, and it is strength the fruit the Gods wish to pick from those trees to whom they Godly gave breath! Yet so I may call thee out to that might your own soul merits.

For that I resist you, I love you. It is not, as it might seem, in follow that we most loyal show. Distance is but a glue to those whose hearts cannot help but honor, and that I "no" utter, to above dress my deeper "yes", is but a way of love through defiance. For you come not to feed me, but to be, and where I say you fail to feed, I utter only my own menu, and do not condemn, only affirming my self appetite. O love, you are greater than fodder for my taste, and that your lips alone do not feed me is no testament against that strong esteem mature I hold for thee, for such is nothing less than sooth.

For that I resist you, I love you. It is none less than utter respect. For you are holy, beloved, and beg distinction, which the distance of my arms grant. The heart in its uniqueness is ever so close. Your dignity is foremost in my defiance. You have touched me, and I shall say so, and it shall never not be, nor not have been, for what is truly touched is transformed, and must speak its truthful weaving if sooth is e'er to be had. I cannot be as you will, for I am wild, but know, beauty wrapped in gleaming skin and wonder-word dripping lips, that this wildness I am, even in resistance, says nothing but, I love you, even if I utter it past the slough of romance's coil, for love is found for strong souls in ecdysis. So let it be.

Monsters Merit Not Reply

[F]imbulfambi heitir sá er fátt kann segja þat er ósnotrs aðal (Havamal 103). "The greatest fool is called he who can say such little, for that is the estate of the unsophisticated." [O]rðum skipta þú skalt aldregi við ósvinna apa því at af illum manni mundu aldregi góðs laun um geta (Havamal 122-3), "Words exchange thou shalt never with an uncouth and rude ape, for from an ill man wilt thou never receive reward for good."

Monsters merit not reply when they open roars from deformed maws and howl ; for merit is the price paid to be received. Many a day the unfinished, unbloomed raw rocks of crudeness roar and wish it speak, yet none are loosed from the long ladder of golden light so struggle stretched up to reach we all must climb. Rough preludes of could-be gems lie jagged and dormant within us, begging polish by kindness and strength and courtesy. But the stones' untamed cliff-scions wreak their havoc in jagged fits, which wins the merit only of Mjollnir. More than this must be ventured if ears of only the most common are wished purchase, let alone the just-below-elven ears of the noble, no less the golden ears of Heimdall, who sole carries the wish and holy bid to Gods, up rainbow paths of sky's hued flames, if he sees merit in the calling. Does one think one moments' folly to shove the curse of bigot's strife and pack the holy ears with dung be carried? Nay, such unworthed words, uncouth and rude, are dropped into the dungheaps ; down there near the dungeons where such offal feeds the awesome Mill.

all translations copyright 2010 by Siegfried Goodfellow

Keep the Opposition Alive

Keep the opposition alive in you, for it is your resistance to world that makes world come alive and sustain its dynamic quality. Severity is a gift to those in lazy need of rebuke for what they careless sow. Intensity, fueled by proper disgust, hatred even, of all that is ill and poor in the world, gives focus, and sustains drive. To rebuke is to push back the thickets that would surround and choke you out. To live life as a stand for those principles which differentiate one from the dominant unthought of the age is a claim to true nobility. Respect naught that deserves not respect. In speaking truth to behavior, you honor the one dishonored by their own misbehavior. Keep hearty touch with the dirty, imperfect world, for its flaws shall inspire your ire and stoke your fires to some reach beyond, where steps ahead you may lead the race, however humble, in your intrepid, defiant advance.

How easy to be choked in mire, drowned in the swamp of easy mediocrity! How easy to sink to the level of living for nothing, speaking only that which has before been said, an easy, herdlike going along with what all else nod in an age of indistinction and colorless corruption. But that which opposes stands up, and speaks, for intelligently refined, it is the oil that feeds the fire in the belly, there where Vindler speaks wisdom in the gut.

Are you important? For what call did you birth forth in blood and amniotic ocean into perilous and strange world made from the bones and blood of ancient monsters? That call is a debt your deeds must e'er repay. For your very presence feeds upon the planet, and if you are to be more than a mouth for fodder, then let what comes out of that mouth, and let those limbs fed on fodder, speak for something more divine than the mere being here, but something deeper, more profound! For nobility is not had without cost ; easy it is to slip from courtesy. Easy it is to let selfishness immatured usurp the quality of one's inborn kindness, making brute to fit a rough world, coming back alone with blows instead of mallets with which to polish. For roughness lies ready for our ready making, if we will take up tool with ready wit and work. The shaping work of the Gods is not yet done, awaiting only our limbs to willful heed the call, and find that special shaping only we can carve. It is certain that the world's ferocity and overwhelmed wave of ongoing immense shall wipe with scoffing hands of erasure whatever we seek to impress upon its even humble parts, such that creation is a struggle to etch upon the magma flows whatever imprint we can desperate and at times random manage. Life must be deliberate, or it is soon merely species of storm, swept up within, merely a moment in the senseless drift, and to go beyond this, one must summon up and gather such piercing spear of force within that one may penetrate the very fogs with one's indomitable will.

It is the chance to grapple you have been given, from Gods grown master through the grapple, against unbeatable, or so seeming, odds. This whole array of endless black, this fire-studded theatre of stuff, this march of titans tumbling watery and cold through the great expanse, is monstrous and strange, and swallowed, it swallows, while one may grant it worth alone through struggle, which pits one's smallest will against its awesome immense ; and for such a gamble, even the Giants nod begrudging admiration. So the Gods will grant greater merit. You have rushed wind-tunnel and wild into a hopeless space, the odds all aligned against you, so gull, wings whipped back and buffet by the hurricane, with what courage will you meet the feary fate? Such merit shall you win utter with audacity.

For that it is, it ought? What cowards utter such feeble squeaks eked from bedlam? For that it is, it shall become, and I, I might be gifted such honor as to be one of many who shapes that very happening! There is one we love! Not one who cowers slavish before whatever simple happens to present itself! Seek out, and let ears hold the secret yet manifest truth : there is meaning in heroic defiance. This world was not meant to be bowed to, but enjoyed through the prayer of adventure, which is its own species of complex worship, one thrown down gauntlet with eager and earnest dialectic.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

We Come Here For Beauty

One thing the Gods will give you, no matter what pain you may be subjected to in this life, is the opportunity to experience beauty. They have gone to great pains to interweave this often-monstrous world -- where the insurmountable often weighs against the good odds -- with beauties of various and rich kinds.

The opportunity is there. The question is whether we will take it. That we will experience pain and difficulties is, unfortunately, one of the facts of the pre-Ragnarok world in the Axe Age. Yet within it all, what we come here for is beauty.

It is important to take the time to experience and appreciate that beauty, and to give thanks for it. For with all the bitter, melancholic experiences handed to us, there is, through it all, great, poignant beauty.

In fact, we need the Gods for this as well, because sometimes the beauty of life is so strong and overpowering that it can feel like it could crush it. We must worship, and give back, and express that beauty, in whatever way we can, artistic or not, in order for beauty to have life-bearing effects. For beauty is power. It is the power of the Gods. I am not discussing formal qualities of attractiveness, which many evil things can have. I am talking about the experience of beauty, which allows one to fall in love with life despite its trying frustrations and struggles.

Let us thank the Gods for beauty. And let us welcome it into our life with song and dance and worship and love.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Ask Where Cometh the Storm

You ask where cometh the storm that brooding sits within this Byronesque breast, and lovely, I say, I say unto you my Gods are Gods of Thunder and Might, Gods of Wild Wind and Blitzkrieg, Gods of Love So Strange and Potent-Fierce they birth the seed of storm within us all who do them toast and honor. It is but wind seeking return to wind, sunburst seek ascent to Sol, and thunder seeking recoil to its silver-malleted electron-lusty cloud-clamoring lord! These are ancient, beyond-the-bounds-of-the-city Gods! They lead on the train, the endless battle-hoards, the long-line swirling legions of livid spirits, gusty, and lust-filled to fertilize the plains made desolate by over-domestication. I seem citizen, you see but a body, but beloved, within the cloister of these tissues train eager spirals and fierce exultations given but mere loan from Gods who long to see their art given good craze and blazen iteration in an uplift of mad and desperate surprise! For we are the scions of their sublime lineage of night-crafted lunacy and monster-milling molding in the screaming labor of earth's olden days ; and they love to see what imperfect forgings we stumbling make and offer up on altars, all to please them. They have the melee's elemental love-light within, and with angry, benevolent, wit-crafted hands they mold against the storm of being while yet keeping that storm's life alive in the bent and twisted art that, now coiling and climbing like the vine's serpentine foilage, whispers subtle and crafty beauty in the silence after sunset descends. You may now see, standing full and revelation before thee, dear, but a fit in flesh, a great coded spasm given drive and rifled by the strong, mysterious arms of divine giant-killers! I am their oh-so-lowly Midgard kin, an up-and-coming, promising young brat of beauty brooding deep to catch the currents' slip that slides so quickly through my inner being. I'm a bear-skin wearing heath-and-briar priest lodged watch-tower in the evergreen thicket to snare and spin some haggard hymns for my Most-So-Holy Lords and Ladies, who await the odd and raspy song with eager yet old ages tempered storm-ears.

There are some Gods who might simply ask for incense, or perhaps the first stalks of golden grain, or fat of the feasted bull, yet every day I feel the pull to produce storms, to hand back crafted chaos into their baroque and orc-bloodied hands of master craftship. Those hands, having strong shaped the earth, given chance to the gamble, so molding the odds that ever-impossibles might possible-seek with strive, I long to please with my own just-barely-tamed trials of rough and raw-hewn beauty, for they seek that bronco buck in all shapings. Ill has it to kill the life in that which is made, but rather like a wild bison to ride with bold peril against the evening's edge. There, shaking fist at the fires, and glance-turning, spurning the iron-cold glaciers for some glory to be found between. They know that fame is evanescent, but like a fire, is found in how high the flames may lick in that lingering moment of blaze before the black. So against that hard hearth I give Heimdall the oil of night's middling hours that he might vapor-of-the-flame carry it rainbow up star-cobbled roads to the royal, stone-laid fortresses of the mighty Gods. And into their hands of patient hale I entrust these rough-tumbled gems I caliban-carve in my humbled flights of frenzy.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

As Our Gods Command

Ye who hang parasite o'er the oak of kin, pruning out its world-wide boughs with sun-robbing shadow, ye mistletoes of mind, darts stealing light from shining, wondrous Baldur, ye kin of Claudius pouring poison in the ears of king and kingdom, corroding out the flesh of commonwealth and replacing with the emblem of your lord and saviour Loki : strife. For you set all asunder, making foes of could-and-would-be friends, turn cracks and crazes to gulfs, rob eyes of wide-open beauty in auto-uglification of world through your own retarded lack of imagination separating same from other in the subfascist quarantine of your racist, trollish minds. And you are the trolls. And you are the ogres. And you are the deformed, cloudy-minded fools made orc through your own dehumanization. For that human cup, so brim with broad flavor, you, O orc-worshipping denizens of shadow, refuse, spilling out mead and smuggling in venom. Venom, venom, to eat out eyes and gnaw the hearts of ears, with ugly, false delusions of smoke-and-vapor lines of small-minded separations. Celebrants of the subhuman, clone-junkies incest-seeking same and same against the different, you are the trolls, you are the ogres, you are the ugly, heartless orcs casting shame on every act of worship you sully. And my rage is Mjollnir, for I shall shut thee up, thy worthless sons of Loki seeing only through eyes of strife ; and I shall grind you to dust and feed your Gods'-gift-spat-upon with spite and cursed darkenment as roots-manure for the all-embracing tree of full relation. For I am kin, you see, to all, and your less-than-fully-human eyes need light from ones such as me, for we the noble tire of your unworthed encroachment on our most and holy sites. If ye try to twain me from my brethren, full brethren, brethren of world and full beyond, then, devotee of strife, receive thy full reward at Mjollnir's mallet, and then be bound, thy noxious Loki-spirit down in Nastrond here with serpents seek your fellows to find, above your worthless master. For your ill-tamed rage and wrath against the weave of braided difference sets your hearts a lowly thrall to wretched nidings. You are disgrace, you are stain, you are sully set to spoil all the good the Gods intend, but, troll's thrall, you shall fail. Turn back now and beg the Gods' forgiveness, if you wish at all their blessings, for their boons are beauty, long art-crafted o'er the ages to awaken and enlighten, and those who shut the eyes of soul and cut short the long arm of love, so that minds melt into narrow alleys of blind, fathoms short of beauty, there to languish -- you set your unholy claws upon the gifts of the Gods, and sure as day shall follow night, for your sacrilege you shall be judged. Set back not the clock of wit and 'ware's advancement, for we are outseekers, embracers of exotic, blending minds and genes with many -- as our Gods command.

Monday, August 02, 2010

O Magnificent Tree of Stars

O magnificent Tree of Stars
whose canopy milky way twinkles
in the dark depths beyond Night
whose rich, unfathomed roots run
to the source from which all emerge,
and nourished in the well of wyrd, you blossom,
arbor whose arms hold galaxies,
wood whose sap runs with the mind made mead
in those underground breweries where souls are distilled
and fermented in the afterlife chambers, to soar
within thy heartwood, juice beneath world
and our mind sees them dancing, in truth.
By root or by crown, all good Gods live within Thee,
ward thee, know thee, cherish and love thee
for you are the All's flower and fruit bearing forth!
I am but a small tree, but in thee,
in thee, O yew, O ash of the brightest fiery colors,
I find ample and awe-inspiring reflection.