Loki’s Stove

Honey-tongued Loki,
Dark-feather father of
Deceit, mischief and evasion
Has been stokin’ his summer,
Drum –sin, tense-skin stove.
Dry, death-beckon dust,
Recalls the terrible, gong-ring thunder
Of the last Ragnorak
That saddest of conflicts:
Bloody faith turning in
On its own convictions:
Tearing believers to gibbering shells.
High, hold-heaven skies
Understand the difference between
Axeman, innocent and chorister;
Know that shelter is promised to none
And that survival is no guarantee of sanity.

12/7/2013

The Loki Throne

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A little bored,

A little angry

With the world

Aging February

Slinks into

The Loki Throne,

Fingers the runes

Carved in the walrus ivory arms,

Speaks the Words of Summoning

That draw forth

Ice-harsh winds

That whip and claw

The earth below.

Reactions of the mortals

Bring a grim, satisfied smileto

The corners of the cruel mouth.

February dons the Misrule Mask:

“Light you fires?”

He mocks in whisper-voice,

“To warm the bones

That you borrowed from clay?”

“To purify the ground?”

“To summon the Fisher-King?”

“Mark my words well

You Sons of Passing Time:

Does he listen for your call,

This tree nailed,

Twice drowned fool?

“For answer, cast your eyes to

Your stuttering fire:

I doubt it!”

 

22/2/2013