Visitation in the wood.

©2021 Michael Raven

Woad paint my face, streaks of blue, becoming ocean waves

Kohl paint my eyes, to the shadows for what they are.

Tapping the thin bones rhythm to the heartbeat earth, the mother of the clan; tapping out the rhythm of skies under the waves, we look westward with fire in our eyes. Darted with mud arrows, she stood beside me, a feast of snared rabbit finger entwined. “Eat,” she said and her cheek tasted of mud as I kissed it. The tapping of bones would linger well into the night, as the wood took up the song in the wind and coming storm — branched their own bones finger snapping in the growing breeze. Rattle, they cry, rattle the night growing strong.

I dressed while fire-build she, so sharp my knife; so strip the flesh from fur to be scraped clean. Spit and sear, fat spatter flames, the sky streak-filled with light.

“They are coming?” The words hinted at question, but it was nothing, only ritual. When I didn’t respond she grunted, knowing the answer. “They come,” she added with greasy fingers, by way of affirmation.

The wait was nothing, we still licked fat-burned callouses as they came.

“We are here,” they said.

“You are here,” I said in reply.

They sat amongst the fresh bones and feasted on the pile she and I had made. Then, they sat back, patting their bone-filled stone-speared stomachs, belched and then stood. And then they sang.

The song —

The song —


This is an experimental piece from my efforts over and the private site. It’s a continuation of my pieces that explore unconventional sentence structure (see We, Wendigo), which is related to, but separate from, my exploration with various portmanteau-likes (more word-mashups than true portmanteau) and standard portmanteaus. My reasons are largely centered around trying to create something different than the standard writing out there, mostly because I’d like to see more experimentation with language myself — these kinds of experiments, along with archaic language resurrection, use of symbolic imagery, and reimagining the structure of language away from the subject/object paradigm we are beholden to. I don’t know how successful I have been, or will be… but it is fun, so I continue to play and hope that I hit on something really cool in the future.

computerlove/

digital:
01101001 00100000 01110100 01101000
01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000
01101001 00100000 01101100 01101111
01110110 01100101 00100000 01111001
01101111 01110101 00001010

response:
01110011 01101000 01110101 01110011 
01101000 00100000 01101110 01101111 
01110111 00101100 00100000 01101101 
01111001 00100000 01101100 01101111 
01110110 01100101 00101100 00100000 
01110011 01101000 01110101 01110011
01101000

the dark twilight sings the body
her hand in hand and
touching distance interconnect
relate and relay, confirm and interface
lipstick, electric sheep dream

© Michael Raven

spiral/

the skeleton waltz
quod fuimus, estis
while wheels spin afire
quod sumus, vos eritis
spirals, the dance begins again

extremum vitae spiritum edere

Originally posted on sceadugenga.com

Tarot | 25Nov20

Explanation:

For a while, I was having this nagging sensation in the back of my head and I recently realized my subconscious brain was trying to tell me that understanding tarot cards, least in a generalized sense, for the purpose of writing a story. I have a story that has seem multiple iterations over the past twenty-plus years, none of which have ever met my satisfaction. I see these internal grumblings something to listen to because, while almost everyone I’ve ever met is surely smarter than I am on the conscious level, by subconscious is pretty savvy more often than not.

Posts with the “Tarot” flag in the title will be truncated after this paragraph so that you can quickly scroll past them in your feeds unless you are interested. I should point out that I am skeptical of tarot as a divination tool (as far as predictive divination goes), but I see them as having potentially high value as a tool for self-analysis on the archetypal/Jungian level. I have no interest in doing readings for others at this time, but I do welcome second opinions, should you wish to share them. And with that…

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Song.

Something splintered in her head. Shards, onyx, bursting outwards, daggers and knives, feeling as if they poured from her eyes crisscrosscutting, the soul in the ocean blue, eviscerated.

Likewise, the birdcage where she kept her heart shattered like broken glass, shredding it like so much meat, crushing pressure inwards — she was sure her chest had collapsed in the train-wreck twisting rail singularity.

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