There is a forest in Poland
where the trees grow white as bone
and weirdly warped,
though no one quite knows why.
People in the area
have been coming here since
pre-Christian times to leave
candles and beads, red ribbons,
tufts of wool, crow feathers
and heart pendants pierced
with nine iron needles,
shiny shards of mirror
and masks made of birch strips,
with moss for hair
and sunflowers for eyes.
They say that if you listen closely
the wind through the branches
sounds like plaintive cries
from inhuman throats
and the shadow of it will remain
over your soul forever,
unless you happen to be carrying
a key and five stones plucked
from a riverbed in your pocket
and are chewing wolfthistle
at the time that you hear it.
Then you should be alright.
Odd as they may seem, those who hold
to such traditions are not mistaken.
Prokris, the handmaid of the Queen
and former lover of King Minos,
spread her long, tanned legs
revealing a smooth mound and lips that had been
sewn shut with fine red thread by her Mistress,
as well as a sphincter stretched to capacity
by a bulbous toy realistically crafted
to resemble a bull’s phallus. Prokris moaned
as Pasiphaë slid the ivory needle through
the girl’s swollen, wine-colored nipple
proud now to bear the signs on her body
of her Lady’s ownership, though it had
taken much to get her there.
C U Next Time
Óðr plunged his sword to the hilt
in the belly of his foe and showed
his teeth in a big, feral grin; Freyr
was driving back two of them
with a set of antlers taken from
a mighty white stag, and roaring Loki
was sending to flight the rest of the slaves
of the mighty three-headed Mountain Jötunn,
while Óðinn himself took down the big bad,
Geri and Freki nipping at its heels
and Huginn and Muninn circling about
the clearing in the forest, observing all.
Viruses of the Mind
The thing of shadow and fear
with eyes like bulging leeches,
too many pointed teeth
for the size of its maw,
a hairy tail that it swished about
and claws like moon sickles
dripping with black gore,
crouched in the corner of the bedroom,
gnawing on the left shoulder of Derick
the self-proclaimed master of Goëtic Arts.
He’d copied the Pythagorean Star,
the Triangle of Summoning
and all of the proper apotropaic Sigils
straight from the book;
it was in aspirating his diphthongs
that he had messed up,
and now was paying the price.
Seneca should have long since gone to bed
since he was pulling a morning shift
at the 7-Eleven, but he was busy sitting
on the couch fuming, beside him
a book with a cornflower blue cover
and a young woman gazing wistfully
at a distant cityscape. A friend
had given him a copy, and said
he wouldn’t believe the shit it contained.
That proved a bit of an understatement,
as reading it resulted in a full blown
existential crisis for poor Seneca.
First Chloe, now this; it was just
too fucking much for him.