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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