#faewords

[bodysnatch3r]

30 (sporadic) days of written devotion.

day three. | together. (*upg disclaimer: these writings will be & are based solely in my own personal experiences with odin, loki and the work we’ve done together).

WE MAKE GREAT MAGIC TOGETHER YOU AND I.

it is supposed to be a conversation

BLOOD SPEAKS BRIGHTER THAN THE DEAD. A CONVERSATION CAN ONLY BE HAD WITH BONES.

do you have any intention of stopping

THERE ARE NO BREAKS ON THIS CAR

okay.

Breathing much too much like drowning. The wolf took me from behind. The salmon upstream. When their hand was in my hair they pulled my head back and it came while I tore my neck open. No sacrifice without the blood or the evisceration. NOTHING TOO CLEAN, NO BONE LEFT WITHOUT FLESH ON IT. LICKED CLEAN, LIKE A MARTYR. 

The weaponised pleasure. The body a sacrifice. The sex as a hanging. There are no pretty metaphors when the highway has no end, and even less when there are broken ribs at the end of it. It was not always like this yet time is a face on the water, and so now it is, like hot molten gold down the throat. An oathed thing that does not yet carry that name. A split tongue silver lie. The god on the ceiling, from creature to sibling to lover. What is needed is what is fed. So we fuck. So we dance. So the scars on his lips leave bloodied scars on my hands.

For the rest of it, for the half-blind cripple, there is knees sunk to the edge in gore. A murky swamp. Trees curled around themselves like nooses or ropes or both, like guts or cords or song. It was not always like this. Once there was a chasm and answers not capable of being understood, something twisted and gnarled at the bottom of the well.

Then they both understood the body had to be dragged from the water, bloated and dying, and that the roses had to bloom the illness out of the veins of it. Blue. White-eyed. 

HOW WOULD YOU DO IT?

with my hands

[bodysnatch3r]

30 (sporadic) days of written devotion.

day two. | how? (*upg disclaimer: these writings will be & are based solely in my own personal experiences with odin, loki and the work we’ve done together).

ix.

Footsteps in the wildwood. The ichor drips from the antler. A crackle. A bone on the floor, engraved. There is food for the carrion, now -- one of them does not yet have a name. There are two, at the end of the path in the darkness. Mirror images, red-head green eyes, tongues lolling. Brothers-in-the-readings. Kennings made of birch and oak, and blood, and guts. The Wildwood unable to find its own shape or form. A deer in the limelight, like a doe in the headlights. Only the blood on the asphalt doesn’t come from the uprooted ribcage: it comes from the Carnonos, it comes from the karnon, from the hurnaz, from the *ḱerh₂-, bare bones spelunked from dying floors of greenery. When the horn dies, it must first shed its skin, and when the skin is shedded it is a bloody tendril on the fur, the train of a veil made of dying gone things. No cycle is complete without its catastrophic end: so the hunt goes, so the darkness speaks.

There are two at the end of the path where first there was one, double-faced, at the end of the path, at the end of the way. One hidden behind the mask of the other. 

xiii.

And there appeared another wonder in heaven; and behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads. - Revelation 12:3

There is no breathing when the blood has already been drained.

xii.

He was buried in a snake pit. Entrails-pit. Blood-pit. What can one do when he is drowned in his children, but sing poetry? Earth poetry made of the snapping of bones. Between earth and sky, you must know both: to know one is to know the other.

He was in the rafters the first time they cut through my bone to make it into something that bore shape and mass. She was in the blood when the body was pronounced dead on arrival in the world, the room, the sting of existence. If there is bloodied, broken teeth they’re only from their mouth, sharp like a knife and twice as pretty, even with the leather and the markings. Some things are only traced like this: bright-blooded, in ways that only make sense if you can survive them. At the bottom of the well there is a set of bones: and they are mine. And they are theirs.

[bodysnatch3r]

30 (sporadic) days of written devotion.

day one. | who?  (*upg disclaimer: these writings will be & are based solely in my own personal experiences with odin, loki and the work we’ve done together).

He sits in a room at the end of the hallway. When one finds it, it’s dirty, warm, humid. There is a derelict neon sign, so flickering we think it’s broken. There won’t be an answer about that, tonight. The answer’s in the wood and in the concrete walls.

“You’re late,” he says, and does not look up from whatever he’s reading. If time cracks slightly under the weight of those words, it’s imperceptible: it lingers. Above us, in the rafters, there’s laughter, laughter and a trickle of liquid gold. I glance up, and see a ribcage cracked open. They hung it from the ceiling, upside down, the split lips bleeding ichor. When the eyes meet the eyes, they’re raven-black, all encompassing, full with a mirth that breaks the world. 

“Don’t mind her, they’re resting.” the wretch at the table says. When It spits Its own eye, he does it into a bucket by her feet. Twin earrings glisten for a moment, their beaks stained with blood and the guts of the dead. We stare back at the orbital cavities, five of them total: one in his skull, the other four in empty raven’s heads. 

“I’m sorry. It took me too long to find the way here.”

That sentence meets a spit onto the floor. Blood and two teeth. In the rafters, the laughter becomes soft black hissing. 

“A wizard is never late. Help me take them down, so we may kiss them.”

The cripple at the table stands and puts down the cards he was reading. It was a book. It is bones. Now it’s cards: few of the well-known myths, a few of their own invention. With a groan, she limps to a nearby chair, climbs onto it. His hands in the red hair, to hold the head still, to make eye contact like a prayer.

“Motherfucker,” the hanged man hisses with a scarred grin. It’s answered with a smile just as deadly, just as burning. “Come down now, Beloved.” we hear ourselves say, reflections upon reflections. “Come here, come down, you’ve done it well.”

When we lie it on the ground, we find our hands stained golden. The kiss is a tongue, slithered deep in the crook of our mouth. The first kiss, wet thing, comes from him, always him, and the second the old madman takes just as softly. Come here, come here, come here sweet thing. 

Wretched, this endless night is. The sacrifice lasts and then lingers for a while: one climbs the rattling roof, and sees below the Hanged Man and his keeper switched. One hangs for nine nights and nine days, and the other silently watches: we know it all, Odin, where you hid your eye.

[bodysnatch3r]

To Vibrate through the World To Burst To Burn My Gods of Darkness Light My Gods of Everlasting

Sacrifice, Eternal Darkness Bleeds New Dark Ash to Ash the Dust that Comes at dawn and Chooses (Quiet Starling, Empty Mother) My Heart as its new Home

See, Arisen in Might Ascend Become From the boiling Seas Henceforth

Like burning Like loving Like lust,  Like Gold that Drips from hands Whose names we have forgotten.

I carry my Dead in my palms On my shoulders On my arms

(I carry my Dead inside me.)

Or else we would be

Empty.

[bodysnatch3r]

invocation throughout trees that bleed sapling roots like blood, back cramp arches poetry through aching muscles, hands clawed in search of words written differently that sound the same. a shrine arisen to beauty. a shrine arisen to death. gods violent demand their tribute, chunks of flesh rotting smiles into the dirty water of the planes. hands skinned into forever, the record skips the needle screams. flip the dress and check for loose threads. you are what you eat. you are your nightmares. you are fragments of bones still stuck between your teeth. your tearing through skin is the music of gods.

[bodysnatch3r]

Mahal, my hands are bound. As I walk through the Halls of the Smith I bear Your name like golden mirth on my fingers. Mahal World-Maker look down upon us As you descend under cover of darkness, Leading the dawn away from your breath, into New Light As you take the Souls of the Weary and place them to your Right, As you take the Blood of the Weary and place it to your Left. You have shielded me in Flame And I will fear no Darkness. Maker, take me by your Side As you mold the stone into world, Mahal hold my hand As I search for your glory in all things. Stone-Changer, show me the way As I am blind.

[bodysnatch3r]

last

And when she looks up, the pale orc’s blood on her hands and between her teeth and on her face and an oaken branch still clenched so hard her knuckles are white she realises they have won, they have won even though her eyes are full with tears and it is difficult to breathe.

And when she looks up there is bloody, weeping quiet on the battlefield, and then someone is calling her name. Queen, they are hailing her, Queen. They are bowing, in the stillness of air that follows the war. The dwarves around her are bowing.

She looks up to Dwalin, for guidance, standing tired and alone in the midst of praise, but Dwalin has sunk to her knees too, and Balin with her, and Dis knows her grip on the sword has faltered.

Melhekhinh they are calling.

Queen.

[bodysnatch3r]

before the beginning

She is wearing black and golds and silvers- the Orocarni princess bethroed to the crown prince of Erebor is a quiet one, it seems, her lashes hiding secrets and sand from the East. Until she smiles, her dark eyes shining with untold mischief, and a whirlwind seems to ruffle her thoughts for eternity.

"My Lord," she whispers to the king, and does not curtsy low.