When this was begun, it was without title.

Without title.

Beyond such things as poem or post, log or blog. No ink stained paper mounted to flap in the breeze. For you see, I awoke this afternoon with a distant awareness, light on the edge of things; a storm of something rising from beyond the shadows of knowing.

Copper green against iron-black anvilled thunderheads of ideography, it scratched against the glassy skin of the membrane whch envelops us in its translucent separateness. A banner snapping in the wind, ragged in its dragon-tongued whippery, all un-nailed there, not placed for folk to see, but simply to be.

Functional imagery; an eidolon of exiles – the iron-woods of gods arranged in mysterious patterns which glyph

precise aureate nimbuses found within all                                                                                                   forms

and phenomena.

So in such unusual typography I did consider the bastard\’s manifesto;\’ that  which exists in spite of patriarchal lack.

To stand alone and isolate, self-generating, and yet: to comprehend the notion of location, of how and where                                                                   first to know the knower as all one substance indivisible

For the stabbing impressions of daylight objects to which we are subjected – the slings and arrows of

outrageous fortune; the  missile-missals that give us wounds and songs of sensation; those that assault us always with the lie of relief – are soon crushed by the all encompassing density of the Nocturnal Earth.

Behold ourselves, pressed to death.                                                                                                                                                              Crushed as the Pillars kiss each other with salted lips.

Our bodies are ground smooth by the millstone and the light of the midnight sun comes from all about; heavens wreathed in robes of chthonic starlight.

Such a shine as comes from beyond all directions; the timeless cool gleam of ruddy light                                                                                             is the strangeness of an illuminated Tartarus

Seven hells now maddeningly transposed above us, dooming us to endless distant strivings!

Without title we bear our birthright engraved, charms written upon our bones in teuthic scrimshaw.                                                               Surrounded then, suffused and soaked in archaic wisdoms

So we take up arms, gird our loins for war – let fly our arrows of pestilent iron, carrying our plague of strife across the skies.

We leap. We spring. Stride on aither and ocean, cleaving and cloven;                                                                                                                           nocked in terrible harmony, bent back

so we weep                 dryly sober,  crusted in seared brine, titanic in our fury                                                                            turning our faces from heaven and swearing our allegience to She Who Lies Beyond Justice

We who have stolen                                                                                                                                                                                into the Mound

do drink the cup she offers.

And venom becomes honey.