New Moon

Oh Silent Torch,

The forth face

in darkness,

Stand upon the

crossroads,

Mighty Hecate,

Fooled they are

by your triadic

image,

I salute the four

of you.

Hail upon this night

of the Black One,

An eclipse of true

mystery,

Vengeance born,

In the name of Gabriel,

sung upon the stillness,

still,

silent,

A panther,

nightmare,

is upon him.

The most deadly curse,

is silent.

Treachery born,

now dead.

This threshold

between death and

rebirth,

This liminal gate,

Night of the Black Torch,

Full Moon-Shadow,

Let the blood flow

between velvet legs,

Oh Hecate,

for the Rites are Hers,

And the Priestess,

Serpents in the sky,

stands upon the Prominence

of Black Fire.

 

Holocaust of the Cherubim

Broken, you lay before me,

shattered limbs of plumpness, dimpled

with memory

of a time, innocent,

I am not sure how you,

winged creatures of Aphrodite,

armed and ready to inflict

the sting of Love’s bite,

became mired in our prescription

for you,

branded by our lust for

Love’s power,

snatching your quiver and bow

from your tiny grasp,

plucking the silken feathers

from your wings,

adorning ourselves,

like hollow birds of stone.

The sky, once filled

with glimpses of flittering

magic,

are now empty,

and though the fireflies

search for you on the summer nights,

they go home alone,

no longer lighting your paths,

no longer telling the world

your secrets.

If You Remember

Do you love me enough

to fight for me?

Oh man,

as your forefathers did,

carried away by

my Valkyries,

to sit on a throne

of heroism,

they died rather than

succumb

to the vile lie

of the One Son,

for they knew that

my body contains

many Suns,

but I am all.

Would you return to my ways?

Live your life in

harmonia?

Honor and Service

the mantle you wear?

Or do you seek comfort

in your enslavement,

do you hang your head

with the shame of your

cowardice,

pretending it is a prayer.

A true man knows

he is born to be a hero,

and his only way there

is his service to his Queen,

for to serve another man

is to be a pawn,

and to serve a god

is to be a slave,

but to serve a goddess

is to know what life is,

to feel her force in

everything,

and to die,

again and again,

as if thrust in the depths

of the woman he loves,

reborn to fight another day,

and live, glorious,

with joy.

Your Goddess Calls

Oh man, drink me,

like the luscious wine you swirl,

delicately sifting over searching tongue,

cherished in its crystal glass,

lovingly adored by you.

Call to me,

with your fiery loins,

for I do not forbid you this,

So that you may explode

your vision white,

the only sound you hear,

your panting,

With my name whispered,

as your hand caresses,

supple curves,

tender ports,

in which your horizons

expand,

Taste me, Man,

like the delicate morsels

your hunger craves,

for I nourish that which

resounds deep within you,

aching,

searching,

longing,

all the while I stand before you,

unrecognized,

forgotten,

I was always here,

it is you who left me,

secretly adoring me

with your probing senses,

seeking me,

forbidden,

but not by me,

by you,

Oh man,

forbidden,

yet calling,

you are,

forever yearning,

but I am here,

waiting,

for you to remember.

Dwellers

How can they not see you,

transforming the shadows

into lairs of opaque

trepidation,

driving even the

crawling night creatures

into the light cast

from a lonely lamp,

patient, you wait,

all of you,

never needing time,

you have no use for it,

not making a sound

when others can’t see you

as they pass by,

nervously looking back

at nothing.

Invocation of Bromios

It is under your strong hands

Bromissimo,

that I shudder, exalted,

head thrust back upon

your shoulder,

as you hold me

pinned tightly to your chest

our breath united

in a dance of silent yearning,

beginning as the moon rises,

her light intoxicating the

shadows that she casts.

Your hands play me

like the song

that you sing

huskily for my ears only,

strumming me deftly,

rising and falling in your

sweet serenade.

Your language is

sensation,

I see behind my

darkened eyes

the birth of mountains,

heaving and rocking

in great rising pitches,

landing spent

upon the landscape.

O, Bromissimo,

sing to me your song

of fauns,

cloven hooves

and horned heads

tossed in ecstatic defiance,

gifts of passion offered

like luscious fruits

ripened in the autumn sun,

dripping their sweet juices down

my chin.

Devour me with your

virile essence,

for you release me

upon the wind,

so that I might

ride the waves of

eternal bliss

if only for this moment,

wild, creature of the night,

unbridled fury,

my chanting is the rhythm

to your song,

as I become one with

the waters,

shimmering moonlight,

midnight dew.

The Priestess II

And She told me,

even the hottest and brightest of suns set,

but the blackness of the female

is infinite in the Universe,

it is the body,

through which all life is born,

and into which all life returns

upon death.

Why else would they seek it

like no other thing,

to control it,

to destroy it,

to hold it dearly,

close, with passion.

They live for it, they die for it,

they want it for themselves

and no one else,

that is the power we,

the female,

hold over all.

The strongest man will

fold under the tender

caress of a woman’s hand.

What else makes him stand

stiff and full of vital power

and fall limp and spent

within our embrace,

all the while yielding

within us,

dying and being reborn

again and again,

while we art continuous.

This is the strength,

unshakeable, undiminished,

for it is the blackness of the night sky

that beholds the shining stars,

and when they burn out and grow dim,

the night sky will hold them still.