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.
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