They sit and spin the world
pattern by pattern, threading lives
together while we desperately pull
ourselves away; how much
is already written for us?

“Straight Lines”

they wrote like that so that you could carve.
paper is a smart thing, people get delicate
with curves and serifs and flicks, all joined
and pretty on the page – concern, for them,
was clarity and carving, taking broken branches
and burning life and meaning back into them
with straight lines, each rune a story
a spell, and a fortune: each individual
meant something alone, but together
they ran along the threads of the world
and cackled at the death of Gods and men
and fates and women, they danced
in the halls and hands of the Norns.

“Myself to Myself”

I sacrifice myself to myself
dedicate this falling blood,
filling wooden grooves,
to all I may or may not be.
Nine nights, moons, years,
any of these i’ll bleed
and burn for, if only
change will claim me
by the end of all things.



he thought he’d be gone for one long homeless year
but all time is unrelenting – tempests dragged him
from his driving course to depths he’d never dared
to dive before, but unseen hands demanded.

guideless he fell through forest overgrowth
pinned at a midpoint – dragged from the path
lost amongst a sea of snarling demon-fangs
seeking divine flesh to feast and live on.

birthed from stone and four elements emerged
a companion – one who’d once fought the heavens
imprisoned for defiance, headband-fettered
ready to fight for him, and for his redemption.

in the forests he found himself a friend unexpected
wise and unforgiven – a pagan brought up before God
could bring himself to care for his misaligned sons,
he knew the poems of a thousand worlds well.

from the courts came a third follower decked
in the brightest armour – a Knight of unrivalled purity
holding a sword stone-born with the ease afforded
one blessed with Arthur’s eternal patronage.

then stepped forward the three pledging service
to us all alone – trapped in this wilderness
we’ll stumble losing friends and lives
till only ourselves are left a-wondering.

no conjured man nor creature created
was enough – the demons of a lifetime
swept the Knight, the Poet, and the Monkey
aside like the paper wrought-words they were.

their sacrifice passed marked only
in our heads – they fell but helped
for falling, building the path
that we’ve yet to dare to tred.

“they say”

they say

the sky is his skull
the land his bones
and the ocean his blood.

we stand by Ymir, giant-father
unwilling world-vessel sacrificed
by three fates with purpose poised
to create this new, bright, corpse-world.

they say

he won the stones through pain
impaled, bleeding, hanging high
from the tree that bore the worlds.

after an age, he emerged fresh-faced,
the All-father, embraced by the magic
that built a thousand worlds from death
scattered about his feet: written words.

they say

the wolf will break his fetters
bursting upon the world after a year
of long, barbarous winter.

Odin will fall to Fenrir,
Thor will die defeating the world-serpent
and the surviving Gods will gather
amidst the dead world and wonder.