Author: michael raven

Michael Raven has been murdering innocent words since some time in primary school and hasn’t had the decency to stop after he was first published in second grade. During the mid-90s, he was the emcee at a spoken word/open mic salon, "Sweet Immolation", in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood. He is deeply interested in the Old Ways and in shamanic traditions.

into the fells

©2023 michael raven

perhaps
-- just maybe
i am a little tempted

that succubus promise
of living beyond the edge
of a world gone mad
from lost lunchboxes
to rude shouts in the
assembly above
with their tanks
and their bombs
and their guns
zombi zombi
hey hey hey
hey ho

toss that phone
onto that wide mountain
heath and scrub
skittering on scree
and into the fells
to follow living stone
and bone etched
with indian ink

Went Out Sky

©2023 michael raven

The sky went out last Thursday. No one knew why.

they broke of shadow
tore the whole down
and flew sunward and
widdershin, spinning
dizzy black and eigengrau
over our heads
filling all the empty
places and hew crying

It grew cold as the sun winkled out. I grabbed hands, any hand, it didn’t matter and they grabbed others as we ran, a chain of catastrophe, all arms and legs and shrieksy. That is when the Wolves (what we called them) came, tumbling in with their motorcades and mercury guns, shouting for the loss of their Moonchild, baby.

I ran for the underground rail, arms tugging be backwards as each of the arms and legs body fell to sharp little bees barking out of hot metal, the air like methamphetamine and the faithful singing on their knees. O’ holy holy, they sang but their god had lost the connection and they became puddles crimson at the top of the stair, bodies thrown down as the jagged tearing ripped their flesh to meat.

look around
what can you 
                    see?
cat's in my belfry
and can't see me

And now we drown ourselves in inky black, hoping the lack of light will keep those shades away.