“ZEALOTS”

 

Where are my Maenads?

I want You to eradicate any

Man, Woman, or Child that

Looks at me

 

Black Holes are Ultra-Cannibals because they devour themselves

 

Do You ever stop to doubt my theatre?

I weep for words unsung

 

Contact like neighbor letters in alphabet,

Conjoined sequence making everything

Else alive, single symbol-sounds on chord-creator

 

Trading tryst cards, cosmic kiss and tell,

Exchange tastes of beautiful women from

West Texas to Scandinavia

 

It’s all information at the end of the day

 

Forbidden sweetness of female love,

Hearts & crafts rock paying per scissoring cut-up

Combos for lines of mercury, spectrum-salsa

Sound-waving straight through bent fingers

 

Tongue-tying saliva-swing sex-change

Between breaths, sneak under cover of

Oral anaconda duel, garrison of unknowable

Amazon inter-clash

 

Data into word processor behind my canines,

And I’ll write an article for You across the

Tastebud toll road, today’s topic:

Trans-Atlantic twist tactics

 

Vocab wasn’t the only thing I learned in French class

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“BIFROST BLUES”

 

This place is strange.

 

Celestial-like vanity, a population with Valholl in their veins, God-genetics.

 

But they are cold: I suspect some kind of Scandinavian survival mechanism, a relent against the roaring tundra-tempests, a ravaging that rears some colder cardiac composure.

 

I’m sure you can see the dilemma; Me, a sambista of the humid horizonte, the Land of sing + sleep + feast + fuck, out and about in the Æsir Archipelago, cradle of permafrost culture, their debt to the Danes that dared against the most bitter of seasons in the before-times.

 

Can you hear that?

 

What are these harmonies that surf the downpour dawning?

 

Absence of Fulla, Friday’s Lament, Wednesday’s story-birds have migrated and there’s nothing to hear, wind in place of words since school’s been out for the silent snows seeping through the sheepskin canopy we both know won’t hold, all the while I weep icicles for the yesterday of our together beneath Surtur’s breath.

 

Fame-Wolf spawn stop to stare aside sentinel-stalks, these Hel-Dogs have no power here; this is a memory Ymir can’t reduce to husk.

 

He is Dog of War, Archer-Astra, the Omega-Prodigal, Thor born of fire-pit kisses, the emaciated heart of Father-Love-Naught, a creed he burdened in the vault of Elysium, his new home, alien Asgard, high castle of the Noble, of the Compassionate soldier-lords.

 

And then the Twin, Brother-Other, Theatre-God Loki, the Façade Prince of Jotunn, sub-zero steel forged puppet-master, Hell-bound Houdini, sent from Heaven to the low-land of Titans, the white flames and the whiter smoke, not even fire can survive but still burns, still blisters.

 

It’s summer.

And everything’s backwards.

Zenith to Abyss.

 

But the letters are the same.

 

And I’ve always been here.

Sticking my hand on the stove

And getting frostbite.

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“DEATH & THE MAGUS”

 

Grant Morrison accepted my book and said

He would read it. It has my contact info on

The last page. He said I was a cool dude.

Said I looked like him when he was younger.

I told him that I was Horus and that I had

Already found Ma’at. When I come back We

Have to work. I climbed to the top of Arthur’s

Seat in Edinburgh today, the extinct volcano

That dreams over the Athens of the North. I

Sat like Siddhartha and took Buddha

Breaths into the titan winds of this pinnacle.

I’ve never been more bought in than now. I

Believe in the New World. I love You. And I

Must write. These are the things I know. This

Is what I am. Today I died at the hands of

Assassins. Today I closed my eyes for the

Last as Dionysus. I am Alexander, Orion,

Horus, Mars, Shiva. I am the War Celestial,

Sky-Shaker, Conflict Engine. May the

Oligarchy cower before my rebel tyranny.

May the High Priestess sing, for she can

Now love for the first moment since the

Death of God. The Beast comes back

Across the sea. Everyone gets what they

Wanted.