©2021 Michael Raven
Hold an eagle feather to my heart, washing the wind with each wave of my heart, washing the air with my breath, drinking in the leaf-rot scents, earthy with fungal fragrant decomposition. Violets at the funeral of Pan, long live the horned one, horny one, the man without a face.
I take the past , crumple into into all corners and shove it up their ass, shouting to the sky — are you happy now? Are you happy? They don’t feel a thing, I am sure, the efforts a waste, but goddamn does it feel good to desecrate those straw dogs! Then, the light dancing like motes on the cold breeze and —
I stand in the manicured garden I trample with my hooves and spite and fear and loathing, reborn I suppose. I trample those violets too, absurd as they are. Who wants to worry about the Death in winter, when it is spring? We dance, we sing, ushering in the Queen riding rabbits in a way that would make your mother cover your eyes were you still a child, make you father shudder in shame…
I was bed.
It was night, it was a gift ride home and, well, not so much bed as ‘carpeted’. We didn’t wait for comfort. It was green, nothing at all like grass, but we made it grass that May eve, lost in the brambles and soil as they rode us into the night. Belladonna and mandrake, the taste of dirt and sex into the early hours. Maybe declaring love to strangers. Shh — that’s secret.
I left that past out of my myriad folded prize. That is a past I will relish — inductress of mine. Selfish, I keep those treasures close, unwilling to let them fade.
Memories fade, washed out rags of grey and tatters ribbons flapping in the mountain of a mind gone to rubble. Where is the path? Overgrown.
The cold breeze wakes me at the top of the hill, my naked skin prickling with the chill, desire shrinking with the funeral wake of the vision and I tumble into the maelstrom me, skin and sticks, refuse and bones, laying in the rot of spring.