hertýs vín

[bloodmachines]

assumptions on godhood // found poetry

[bloodmachines]

Brother of the Wind and Sea, Wolf of my temple, come to me. Did you dance or did you flee Was your carrion-rain conspiracy?

And would you ken, if I did speak, Of sword you forged with open beak? Sun of my halls, bright jewel of peaks I am drift-kindling, flesh-fuel weak.

But you, who rides on bough-tensed wire, Your whispers come at son’s bale-fire, What serpent’s sorrow lights desire To sing such songs at ashen pyres?

Let cursed lips guess: I know a queen, Who steals man’s breath and licks them clean, Who weaves such thirst with loom marine, May she never lose her gold-drunk mien.

Call it carrion-tongue- it eats the dead. Call it Baleyg’s curse- he’ll have my head. Delight of Huginn; Muninn’s flood- Iron-draught golden-

Fire is blood.

(originally posted 6.28.17)

[bloodmachines]

do the stars remember? or, more likely, do we fall into streams eternal, do eagles spit (y)our blood into children's dreams; could i cough it up?- one voice intertwined, genius drying into red strings on parchment. or do you stay amber, untouched by time, are the gods merely draining their electrum, molding you into torcs and baubles, forging you to grace divine throats.

better this way, i think. to write you letters with no answer, let Saturn save me from my fears. i would disappoint, i think- both in style and in form. you might recognize my smile- would you find it fearful? i cut my head off, forged a sword to fall on. the moon was never so silver or sanguine-

i am no protector, dearest; i am conspirator and this blood is mine.

mine, i say- but I bleed in the City of Storms, those subterranean labyrinths fill the aquifer of Time- this is where i live, could you still love me? there is no tense here- mirror paradox of monoliths, dead monarchs throw bones of corvid twins. she translates madness in crimson, holds my hand.

forgive us.

we knew you and winked; we dissolved in the waters. to hold back the void, we are not always tender- dancing breathless on the eyewall, or in verdant galaxies laced with pine; in the City of a Thousand Names and Fire- is it better this way? i think. either way, it is.

the universe bleeds its way through me, 11 kb/s, and i am licking at the wound. (11.3.16)

[bloodmachines]

It's not that we don't know things. But we don't Know them. We hoard the location of gold and never go to fetch it, lest the dirt get in our throats and under our nails. Might've done sometime. But this, this is an age of hunters. Maybe you should worry less about the rest of humanity. Maybe you should. Is that why we're here? Fuck it, I don't care. I'll find some damn way. Now see, there's the spirit. Perhaps I should be less kind. I already know that. Ask my heart. …In the beginning, there were two things. Nothing, and Fire. I guess you will find some damn way. And a cow. Forgot the cow. I did leave out the poison, too. Nah. You just didn't mention it.

(3.14.18) (apologies to mccarthy)

[bloodmachines]

what could you give me? nothing. nothing, like she got for her mercies, her tongue never slipping but dancing round red berries she refused and for what? so a god fresh-drunk can explain death to the knowing? what are you going to do, teach me mourning from inside a wolf’s gut? no wonder you stink like you do, how drunk have you gotten off the bitter storm-surge of my pledge rolling down cold cheeks, lips repeating into my wounds: oh god i smell like you and they know.

it doesn’t matter. i am tired of explaining the movement of our spiral instinct, but not the story of it, who left the words smoking on the mantle whether drowned girls reek like hanged boys why we woke up again. i am paul of tarsus crawling under st. jeanne’s skin knife splitting skin outwards, the tree was gold and i am nothing. the blind increaser of a fool’s ignition– what are you going to offer beyond what you are?

nothing. nothing but a wolf’s storm-pale eye with courtesy enough to invent sorrow in it deft fingers for a necklace tracing apologies between the sinew i’m sorry you know the language the taste of never-always-home-

to know the nothing of your whisper, and more reasons to scream. i know what i want and of course

it’s all you’ve got.

[bloodmachines]

The hard part is not necessarily doing it-- any con job worth his coat will tell you as much. And while not a tale entire, many will tell you they donned that coat for a reason; for something maybe the world and its twisting locks of time were unable, or unwilling to provide to one's satisfaction, so you start looking for the guy with 'authority' and you might look for someone with something else. and hell, you may find them, and more.

what they may not tell you-- because this twist might always be a little personal, and you may truly never have a bubble for it that you can fill while staying in the lines-- remembering, well, that can have a hell of a kick to it. and sometimes, bad etymology is good wisdom, because that recoil might knock you right back into a mess of knived spirals, blood-flame in every bite.

here's the thing, though.

you might find that guy, or he might find you. and he might-- if he Knows you-- cut you down, drag your shriveled, meatbag ass across the west, and shoot his shot before dropping you off in a safe hand. decent story, anyway.

you will not keep your hand.

but you will survive.

and you will remember.