Book of the Fallen Blood Moon

Book of the Fallen Blood Moon

Chapter 4:  So far and away from the cages of anger

The irrational possessed her and here was true freedom

nobody stood forebodingly like skinny actresses being vain, afraid of stillness among cliffs

sharp phonons embraced victory and spoke in silent ways, sailing through interstellar space

the symbols danced in a stiletto pump clique of white clouds

perched over the despotic remnants of self importance, like bird souls fighting for lead

Echoes flung themselves over the water at the speed of shadow and sound

with buried bones, she could sense dead bosses trying to order the emergence of old resentments under the earth were partially fleshed skeletons of ghost workers within green rotting coffins

their hands shivering with tremors, skewed dust decay and torrents of life pouring from the horn

the moon locked away and the car alarms naked in the white cracked drunken sun

A tsunami fog rolled in singing, animal medicine ghosts traveling through time in lost words

it swirled and billowed and hung the world upside down by its feet, gracefully in a storm canoe

blood dripped from remnants of a lambskin painted gold, nailed to the dry center trunk of tree

carved from out of the wind, an ancient mask made for the crow, a gift from her old father

and underneath wave after wave after wave sounded quietly against the hull of the small ship

Clothed in and around the blackened bar was a living fire to lighten the darkness

there was a huge sheet of wind coming from within her heart to carry the universe

like a crashed web of gold and lashed skin drums beating and heard like whips in the shade

on the shore

in the shadow of the blinded god, laid a male human beckoning downward for more sweet death

naked and pathetic, the man reaches into the air, weakly murmuring for his old mother of roses

In supplication to invisible moist wolf tits he gathers a handful of crimson reeds

a whited sepulcher, he moves them ritualistically, comatose invocations to an unconscious whore

seven ghostly women wearing white robes appeared from the fog,  fey and plump with milk

black hair covered their faces and in their hands were dancing snakes, swaying to the flooded air

bearing witness to his lost soul, copper burners stood on the shore, pouring gowns materialized

A splendid narcotic fire erupts behind them, broken among the last shells in the game

incense pours forth, rapturous eons pass billowed in the winds of peace, bliss and delight

crows and cougars mew and caw in satiation behind the fences of the many, many houses

eating at earth, calling from the dark pines, logging roads of gravel edged by bits of dead beers

imminent destruction in the chant and rhythm of their seven invisible drums, snakes writhing

A burning in the ancient glade of bonfires

Cast away into the one awaiting in our far away darkness

Where the shadows fear no second glances and the eyes rest with ease