Under the Shadow of a New Moon

They watch,

night vision,

and you can

feel them

see you.

Breath rises,

a fog to

peer through.




the darkness,

with outstretched


you make

your way.

Will the


of your



finally make





You wait,


within a

moat of the

vapor of

your own


The smallest

bits of


relief against

the darkness.

When a flash

could be

a retina,

you wait,



You wait.


Sweet Song of Liberty

I am blinded by this blizzard,

the methodical winds of tyrants

beat me with their frozen taunts,

For they pretend to own my flesh,

as they dictate my future,

and reconstruct my past

to suit their totalitarian agendas,

The storm rages against my notions

of liberty,

taught to me in classrooms of wax

and glue,

colored string and songs of

beautiful country,

beautiful land,

our land,

your land,




I am as free as the fish

in the bowl,

but less wise,

for he knew all along

that his world was made of glass,

and that his last breath

was already measured,

a long,


time ago.

Invocation of Bromios

It is under your strong hands


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


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.

Unapologetically Woman

My lips yield knowingly to your

pressing stare,

silken gown enshrining me

in its shimmering folds,

I’ll wear no veil,

my hair flowing

like rain down

my supple back,

a mane of freedom,

not encased in the tomb

of their shame,

my eyes locked upon yours,

the palms of my hands, with

their long, slender fingers,

weave themselves over my

voluptuous form,

liking the feel of it,

not starved into the

shape of an adolescent male,

not hindered by the

cloak of their sin,

not hidden from view,

as if it were forbidden fruit

that they sneak a bite of

when no one is looking.

I am not the shed skin

of an evil serpent,

but the supple rhythm of

one coiled, watching,

mysterious in its forthright


deadly only if

deemed so by those

who fear it,

wrapped luxuriously around those

who understand,

or at least who

seek to.

The Priestess

And She taught me,

“Ride the beast

well, my daughter.

The way only we can,

yoke him, grab his powerful


and under your grasping


he will yield,

as only the most powerful,

the most virile,

the most exceptional


For within you blooms

the absolute power

and fortitude,

given only to the most


of soft petaled flowers,

making the most

furtive bees

dizzy in the wake of

intoxicating perfume.

It is the greatest of


and the secret they

have sought to render


only they also knew

one day we

would return.

Not as brides, or servants,

or chattel,

but as warriors,

born to set the world


The Followers

You sang a song

of the death of Her,

and expected me to rejoice

in it;

told me to find

peace in her torment,

and in my own.

Stripped I am,

at the hands of you,

of your sweet lament

of your own sacrificed


as you tell me to

cry over your iconography,

all the while dancing

on the ashes of

my dead sisters,

whose screams still

echo in the darkness,

illuminated by the flames

of the hell you reap

while singing songs

of love and

your own


Tenderly you

caress the open

wound of your

glorious bounty,

drawing in the fetid

scent of the rotting


contained therein.

You celebrate the

reign of your

thorn encrusted king,

flesh rendered

mute by the

torture you heap

frenzied praise upon.

Condemning me my


my head turned away

from your emasculated


preferring the truth,

the thing you seek most

to destroy,

the queen of all of


the one thing you have

never been able to


despite all your

most desperate yearnings,

that thing,

that pervades all existence

in all her most

glorious forms.

That is the truth

that burns you

like the hand

of condemnation

that you offer wholesale.

That is the truth

that poisons you,

leaving you rasping

in anger,

unable to

create the very thing

you seek to control.