Spiritual like Jacob's Ladder

I stare into the evening sky, nude.
 Fragments converse,
 one speaks, reeks of nostalgia. Vomited peppercorns, voice anticlockwise.

I loath the Fates, three headed as they are. I loath their icy faces, loath their looms, loath that one of those heads is young and vigorous of life. I loath that they are giants of old, even loath that they do not look fetching but bland as a dull kitchen knife, dowdy of life. I loath it all, loath that they never go for a dip in the summery waters of Midgard, loath that they never rant atop a hill of spite in Niflheim, loath that they never leave the ash-train and her walls of white, and ever remain unchanged in her depths. Loath that nothing is known about Veölfölnir the train-master. Loath that the four capos only eat foliage, and never think of rebellion. Loath that Elli will never lose a wrestling match. Loath the gangster einherjar who watch the capos with worshipful eyes. Loath those privileged ones who come, fleet footed to seek the advice of the Fates. Loath the railway Bifrost which they ride upon in their rooms of curious names. Loath the seer who knew the ash-train when she was but steampunk, and destroyed her not. Loath that the Fates know the secret of Gullintalli's hearing. Loath Gullintalli himself for he has seven mothers and he hears all joys and wanderings of light in the ever mournful darkness yet does nothing. I loath that he can even hear the scrapping of my quill on papyrus and spares me not even a chuckle from the mouth that shall blow the horn that will begin the end of it all. I loath that I find enjoyment in knowing their final despair. I loath that the elves walk in light. I loath that I find ecstasy at knowing such myths of old. Ha, my loathings are the number of the grasses in the Nine Worlds, but I still loath. I loath, utterly and without depth, the Fates, for they are rigid and pale of face, icy of expressions. I loath that even their collective name sends a shiver down my spine. I loath, even the fact that I know it is not their fault just like it is not the fault of a molly mule not being pregnant. 

I do not pretend I do not know that.

It's raining. My mind as cold as Jotunheim's summer dress. The crucifix shaped 

moon is sneering, sneering. I want to sleep & never dream, to roast my thoughts raw and never have my joys thaw. Instead I feel itchy. Fuckin' itchy. 1⁄3 Fates has tasked the looming of my fate to unctuous botflies. Can I even give my thoughts some petite thighs? 

O' thoughts of mine, brisk they are, then silent they sleep, other times. Most times they walk, then they sit on a terminal like bus stop, waiting for the bus that never comes, only smoke that greets the wind from a mouth uncaring. A session with a lilac friend. 

The cigarette. She graces my mouth, virgin always when she begins the journey, then she tells her story through the eyes of my lips The tongue will always testify, later, but the eyes always see first. What do they see. Nothing. Yet. The brain still works as it recognizes a mirror. A miracle. Mirror call. 

It answers, sees itself, the eyes respond. What stares back is as strange as a dappled horse with a blue bow-tie, goat horns and a crown of pea pods. 

Sanity died on his penultimate bray, hanging heart flirting with ogling Pan to give birth to a Nebuchadnezzar untamed. On that day marionettes danced on the strings of other marionettes who danced to other strings until the strings burnt in the flames that float in the bladder of Muspelheim, and the sun finally had a popinjay egg child from a half willing half done planet omelette and... 

Sigh. 

I pull a hearse on my uttering, it is bed manners to have sex undressed, to expect one to expose themselves if the other will not bad manners, and since you are a light in this blackness, a torch I cannot see the face of, I shall undress first as a show of nude faith and you shall see me in my naked glory. This is I. 

A name. I am a name, as identifiable as a monthly African driver ant Dorylus wilverthi queen egg. A name, etched in the gnarly dust of a forgotten prehistoric cave. A ghost of a sperm of a drowsy mid-morning quickie in a dishevelled tavern, residue of his seven seconds of fame. A firstborn of gnawings and many a wrong turn on the bleak road of starless existence, mocked even by the star Apus whence I was born. A name. 

I will not apologize to all who are seized by the maelstrom of confusion, Laplace's Demon have not done so, why should I. To those who feel insulted we may have started on the wrong foot, if my foot was indeed on the ground. Sadly, I levitate, upside down, hanging out with the slow acting noose in the blackness below the snow.I see through the cracks humanity that wears mauve and reek of clove, spice that makes me choke. Humanity that threatens to finally sink me to obscurity after crushing my bones and pounding my sinews, descended from sodomy that has fucked them. Fucked their minds with boorish antlers seven times so that by any luck, they might have a positive thought, perfect perhaps or just produce deers, dears of thoughts of this sodomy that has ravaged them with promises of immortality on an uneven bed. Who is the sodomizer one might ask? Is it society with its lobster claws, or even heavenly beings with their saintly thoughts, or god, if he be an otter learning how to fish with a curvy thorn. 

Well what was it you ask, and why should I answer? It is not a test of significance, simply directions which lead nowhere, which in that place is somewhere? That somewhere has a mirror. I glance at myself at that mirror each tanned 10 o'clock twice, stark naked, hoping I...hoping.. 

Sigh.

Pity me not, not fully, only this once will a half done egg be palatable to my 

simpleton imaginings. I am odd. I weigh one and a quarter middle weighted Norwegian forest cats and aye, it is in pounds. I'm a name with Veronese green lips on a day dedicated to the goddess who loves cats and a searching widow. That is who I am, aged a tender nine and twenty. I could say I have kindness but I will now just be grasping at choking reeds here, and miring myself further in the quicksand of your opinion. I did learn though, on a day grey with clouds that they was a word that sounded smart and learned, sophisticated to say as impressions go, and it was ailurophile. The morphine syringe of reflection of that moment I read that word and the exhilaration it sent into my meridians plunged into me over and over again in the throes of evening. My veins vibrated with cackles of sweet soothing and in the throes of passion by my lonesome I lay clothed on the bed, numb of feeling and at the height of my ecstasy, finally cursed the day I was birthed. 

So you know who I am now, that I am a girl with Veronese lips on a Friday evening, and I am anorexic. The time grows short, the beef is flavorful, the loathsome Fates are hard at work, and so I must be, reminiscing of Sol in the hopes that Morpheus might not remember me, and so come, and then whisk me once more into the land of blackness and howls of even creatures I shiver and shake at their baying. 

I could speak till Loki is forgiven for his crimes, or his wife says fuck you I'm getting a divorce, or till Nana is remembered for something other than crying for Balder, or Mimir walk with a head attached to a body but why should I? 

Goodbye to you all with bulbs for a face, watts for expressions, much do I envy you, for you are serene in the light, you belong in the wonder of the outside, that which I can only envy, but be an alien, ever a stranger. And before I depart into the ice below the snow, I will tell you why it is I have written to you all this today, when other days I have not. I had green tea on the day that I rather preferred the orange of fizz, so the latrine of my angry mouth poured out disgusting words which breed like horny frogs. Thoughts.

An ill mannered somebody I am. Somewhere fucked up, staring into the evening sky, nude.