Crow, I want to trace your ligaments with my fingers: shaky & copper stained, glinting like river eyes. I want to taste your crow blood, moon blood, womb blood: Beltane smoke on my fibred tongue, orange as burning, six o’clock in the morning sun.
I am delirious, cannot delineate your madly black, laughing flight path.
Crow, you are more beautiful than the silver streaked sky above this bed-sit riddled city: more beautiful than painted hippy warriors reclaiming the streets; more beautiful than an h-bomb going off inside the pentagon.
I want you.
I want to drink you deep into my dry stomach: take you inside me; absorb you into the recesses of my being.
The Goddess is within you, Crow: dark as amber, scorching your feathers, riding you in the fiery wind. She knows the whys and wherefores, the putrescence of being. She is genesis and nemesis: blissful & unseeing.
Crow, you are the apocalypse. I want to ride you till the end of forever.