Crow

Crow, I want to trace your ligaments with my fingers: shaky & copper stained,

glinting like river eyes. I want to taste your crow blood, moon blood, womb blood:

Beltane smoke on my fibred tongue, orange as burning,

six o'clock in the morning sun.

I am delirious, cannot delineate your madly black, laughing flight path.

Crow, you are more beautiful than the silver streaked sky above this bed-sit riddled

city: more beautiful than painted hippy warriors reclaiming the streets; more beautiful

than an H-bomb going off inside the pentagon.

I want you.

I want to drink you deep into my dry stomach: take you inside me; absorb you into the

recesses of my being.

The Goddess is within you, Crow: dark as amber, scorching your feathers, riding you

in the fiery wind. She knows the whys and wherefores, the putrescence of being. She

is genesis and nemesis: blissful & unseeing.

Crow, you are the apocalypse. I want to ride you till the end of forever.