Wednesday, 22 October 2014
Danu - Tuatha Dé Danann
Well, you cry, finding hoary autumn leaves in your gnarled fist, this is the time isn't it?
The bent backed trees genuflect, subjects to the glorious Queen, the savage monarch, the seasonal she bitch whose topiary crescents the bold, shaming male impotence with her supreme indifference.
You hustle the children, scarves tossed idly round milky white throats, hats bobbled, pulled down negligently over soft pink ears, into car seats.
The sound of defiance grunts beneath you. An engine coughs into life.
The winds whip then chides your arrogance sending a thousand lashes flailing against metal. Be afraid they say their voices echoing her discord.
The stock and tug of rubber on mulch, on weary tarmac, as the wash down flash of horizon warping blitzkrieg diminishes your possibilities, all your potentials, to stark realities.
The inky blinky black splits asunder, obsidian cumulus veils her face.
I am the age old she screams, the mother of your inventions. Your frail deity worries me not. See me now. See me in the defining, the time of chase and wither.
And you shake as they sit trembling. Not with cold but for fear of the wanton wild woman who holds your world in her brazen fist.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.
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