Saturday, March 8, 2014

The Wild Hunt



The ax bit into the stump
and when it was yanked away, they flew out 
from the crack and into the night.
The woodsman staggered back, aghast
at what he’d done, but they ignored him
as they tore down the forest path
in a swirling tunnel of leaves and twigs
and fists of dirt. A shadowy mass 
of horns and hooves and tusks
of talons and feathers, of clawed assholes
and fanged eyelids. 
Whatever does not dive for cover 
became impaled, bitten in half, or merely smashed to jelly.
Antlers sprouted from their heads
and between each pair was strung 
a tiny naked man, bound by his wrists 
and ankles, wriggling and trying to scream,
lashed by the low-hanging branches.
The men were inseparable from their steeds,
centaurs with manes and beards whipping behind 
like cloaks. Between their hind legs writhed
hissing masses of snakes for genitalia.
The women clung to their backs; cold, blue skinned,
fingers digging deep into the chest hair of their mates,
serpent tongues flickering into their ears
to spur them on. The villagers doused their lights
and locked their doors, praying they ride through
without stopping. Armored with masses of beetles
and centipedes that squirmed about the roots of their fur,
feeding on mites and lice as they themselves were fed upon
by crows which constantly swooped in to cram their beaks,
a flapping mass that billowed out around them like black flames.
Slung across their shoulders, quivers bursting with arrows
whittled from bones. Paws gripped iron maces and hatchets
and even a Luger or two carefully tucked away in holsters
made of tanned infant hide. The weapons were mostly for show,
they prefer to use teeth and nails like when they were young,
before bronze or iron, before they even had the urge to grip a single stone.
They still travel the earth, and will until someone figures out a way
to cram them back into that crack in the stump
and once again seals the gate with a blade, to wait
until someone is foolish enough to once again 
grasp that handle and pull

1 comment:

  1. Yikes, bedlam again "by a host of hungry goblins that into rags would rend ye"

    affections,
    uncle frank

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