new poem

A U G U R Y   O F   T H E 

G R E A T   E A G L E  

A T O P   T H E   T R E E  

the looming sky

above the modern world

tampered with the patience of wrong gods

and so became pregnant

with the storms and thunders

of the apocalypse,
and nowadays, the sky has fallen into itself

like a used-up cunt,
and therefrom this voided vagina

emerges

the hawk and the eagle

t r i u m p h a n t l y
on the branches and the crowns of the oak and the ash,

kinglike

between the great silver mountains

beaming
with the crystal plumage

of immortality ―

look up

behold

the golem

of the empyrean

destroying the horizon

with its stone sword of air ―

soar over these red clouds, thunderbirds and black vultures,

carve the air with your wings into the ephemeral idol,

the warrior of love and ether

which thruts its javelin

and throws its shuriken of silent death

into the stratosphere;

archetype

sky-bird
winged usurpator of the throne of the earth;
your talons will shine with the amber of Europa

and your beaks shall squawk as an echo at the very end of days:
praise be to you, Veðrfölnir;
cast your gaze on the dark of the world
so that we may understand it,
and praise be to you, Eagle atop the oak of worlds ―
flap your wings mightily
so that we may steer our ships to discoveries 

         (for we are fucking lost out here!!!!!);

our auspices fall to the ground
with laughter in joy and in lucksome foreboding,

wondered by the glorious apparition,
revealed like a flash on the horizon,

like a revelation on the road to Damascus,

like a blaze of poignant hope

in the prophetics of a future long foredoomed:
yes, surely the dearth and the calamity may come,
and surely the hails and ground-fires will again scourge our lands,
but the chief haruspex will slit the sheep of sacrifice

with the ritual dagger,
and he will point not to the ominous ― but elseward:

yes, buzzard and falcon, with your feathers and your exquisite vision,
soar above the mountains; hiss like the boreal wind ―
for between every flap of your elysian wings
occurs an eternity but in a second,
and between every stimulus
and every reaction
there is an endless ocean of choice:

i speak my words

but between them

there is a steppe-waste
which is traversed
by the mounted archers
whose hooves float above the ground
and whose arrows burrow the flesh of phenomena;
the mounted archers gallop from corner to farthest corner again
with their sacred epistles and correspondences,
noising their evangels of freedom
to all the ones in shipwreck and to all the sons of exile;

shadowed by the span of the albatross,

the mighty ziz-bird outshadowing the sun,
they ride with their bows like the huns rode

and the holy scythian war swords

are raised above their heads

in an ecstatic worship of war:

but heed lest you forget:
their triumphs and festivites,
but a homage,
and a lamb of sacrifice...
to the great Eagle...

atop the tree...

hearken

embrace

these days of inspiration;

appreciate

these basins of rough-terrained hope;

fear not

these nights of destitution,

and welcome

the screeches and hisses of the dark.