my brothers brother…,
the mirror between them,
as a solemn test of times,
the rivers of sound and fish
and fishmongers…,
history on repeat,
my Byzantium,
City Of Thousand Faces,
you as Byzas, me as Charlemagne,
the journey to the far side,
of soul and souls Command,
here they wrestle and sweat
is pouring from their bodies,
bodies that create new bodies,
new minds…,
new roads to perdition,
a wild notion of the heart,
a Hearth of some magical verse,
burning without wood or coal,
the eyes of that witch,
named Apōleia…,
they raped her,
then set her clothes on fire,
then the noun was created,
to hold the earth from her shoes
as she flows like a brown goddess,
flies high as a feather…,
I believe I knew him,
that elemental force,
our land and all that’s on it,
our fathers father and his
father before that,
our grandmaster switcheroo,
raw was the time and the land
we’re standing on,
our hands are not our own,
legs tilted under similitude,
they watched happily…,
smirking while they done it,
as the leaves turned golden,
halo over suns head,
our Son…,
the stigma of your conviction,
light of a life unlived,
this is the Earth and
all its carrying…,
we are nothing more than (),
she turns the ground to zilch,
happily,
when they pull swords from stone
and marry merry men,
who hold dearly to some
comprehension,
not out of spite or
of many things or
the winter smiling
with pure chrystalline snow,
axes in frozen wood
and daughters thoughts:
I think I was a Wildling,
from Nantucket to Estonian
shores, my white whale,
skin to skin,
continent to continent,
war to war, sound of Nothing,
a tribute to whaling communities,
holding of for dear life,
while their harpoons puncture
earths mightiest of beasts,
Leviathan of a Woman,
round the decay,
was said a long time ago,
she knew the mirror between them,
those brothers,
who mingled with taxes and death,
I guess we dont know anymore
the price with which the witch
was burned, or hanged, or drowned,
made from the same prima nocta
or was it prima essentia or
quinta essentia,
either way the hounds were loose
and the judgment of many
destroyed the happinness of few,
which is always the nurturence
of sufficients…,
we the mild and antique,
sure of sound minds
sound the alarm,
raise the stakes,
burn our houses,
our souls houses,
bodies like bolders,
raising stones from the river,
her legs glimmering
in the mornings light,
mildew happening,
just to see or feel or touch,
a wildly thing to love
the terror of gratitude,
the knife of that other wound,
still shining its light,
repeating visions from
lingering and ghostly shadows,
the Men…,
Gods Mischief.
