Posts Tagged ‘Hate’


Short – Coyote

November 14, 2009

His claws rake the earth. Fever stretches through
His coarse fur, his skin, his eyes that gleam with
Animal promise. Coyote’s kisses
Are edged with wildness, burning with instinct.


Pretty Girl

October 5, 2009

Break your heart into a thousand pieces
And give it to me, pretty little girl.
You think you’re better than me, think that you should
Be worshipped as me – a goddess! I laugh.

Sparks of fire and ice shudder through veins;
Rainbow-fast, dizzying and bright-bright-bright.
Love to hate me, to want me, to love me,
And I hate you, hate you, hate you; you bitch.

My boy’s lying on the floor, stitched-lips, dead
To the world, and it’s your fault, stupid girl.
Don’t you know who I am? Do you think that,
Because you’re beautiful, I’ll let it slide?

Do you know who I am? I’m not a toy,
A kitten with claws unsheathed – oh no, no.
I’m everything you could only dream of,
And I’m ready for you, idiot child.

I’ll count your eyes and your throat and your toes,
And I’ll laugh and dance – gold, gold, gold – on your
Grave; Eros will dance too, human girl, for
He loves me more than he ever loved you.

Stupid girl, pretty girl, what trouble has
Your too-fast hands, dripping wax, and broken
Heart got you into? I’ll tell you, my girl,
When you arrive. We have plenty of time.

I’ll learn what makes you scream. I’ll break you, girl,
And I’ll do it with a laugh and a smile.
I have eternity to know what will
Make you cry for love and pain; I learn fast,

And I can keep you alive forever.


Fiction: Hekate and Hermes: Crossroads and boundaries

August 22, 2009

He, she thinks, licking her lips, is everything that she loves about herself. No, no, he is not just that. He is everything that she loves and everything that she hates. He is the shadows to cool and comfort her when the light—the bright light that she has grown unaccustomed to in the gloominess of Hades—burns hot-fast-sharp enough to hurt. She bleeds for that light; smoke pours from her mouth and eyes, her own power streaming away from her – from her own imbalance.

And thus, when the light stings and her smoke flees, she turns back to the darkness, back to him. He is always there – not pushing, not demanding, just there. He opens his arms to accept her; she pushes the low rim of his hat aside and kisses the warm skin of his brow. It shouldn’t be possible, not for a god whose very lips are dark with shadow, but he’s always warm, as though fire burns under his skin. She loves that; and maybe she hates it a little, too. Maybe she hates him a little.

But in that moment, with her body nestled against his and stealing the warmth from his skin, she does not think of love and hate. No: she thinks, instead, of another lover – her only other. She is of the night, of gloomy death and prophecies of thus; and so perhaps it was natural that she would fall into Hades’ bed, one Summer night when they were drunk on their own despair. Summer is Aphrodite’s season, after all—her domain does stretch to the Underworld, of course: for she is a goddess of life and, thus, of death—and she had not seen Hermes for almost a month. Time travels differently between the worlds; and although she knew that it had been only a month, it had felt like endless, lonely years. Hades, hungry, kissed her first. She remembers that clearly, despite the fogginess of her mind and of their encounter. Passion fueled them, then, but it did not hide how much Hades repelled her, when their chitons were strewn beneath them and all she could feel was his cold, hard body against hers.

But she does not like to think of such times. She kisses Hermes again—lips to lips, this time—and thinks instead of her seduction at this lovely-awful god’s hands. He was not cold and indifferent like Hades; instead, he brought her cool skin to quivering life with his hands and tongue. She only has to press her fingers to her tongue to feel the echo of her taste and his combined in her mouth – light and shadow, summer and winter, ice and fire. He has never bored her: she is inexperienced and he is not. She chooses to spend her days in Hades with only shades and barely-there nymphai; and he flies through the air, over the earth and through the seas. She envies him that: he is a messenger, bound to them all, and yet he has more freedom than she—lady of the Underworld, minister to Persephone and one-time lover of Hades—will ever have.

Now, though, Hermes pushes the darkness out of her mind with kisses that set her nerves on fire. He does not ask questions, nor comment, nor laugh at her cold, fevered hands that glide over him, awkward and fumbling as ever. He just kisses her, breathing heat into her body, and she responds as she never did for Hades.

Later, she lifts her head from the ground and looks at him. Her skin is flushed, now; and his is cold and pale. The balance has been restored – and when he leaves, he will be warmed by the sun and the kisses of nymphai and his wife, and she will lose her heat to the creeping cold of the Underworld. But such thoughts are not for now: and so when she looks at him she casts all of her thoughts aside. She—Hekate, queen of ghosts and necromancy, lady of blood and life and death—becomes almost mortal with her open expression and too-moist eyes.

I love you, she thinks, as she always does.

And his lips twitch, as they always do; for he is language, he is thought verbalised – and yet he will not answer her unless she speaks the words aloud. He would not do her such an injustice as to act as though she is beneath him, that her body and mind is his alone to read.

But she will not speak the words herself. To do so would be to become truly mortal, to lose her divinity and yield to the pleasures and pains that Aphrodite and her Erotes bring in their laughing, golden wake. She is not ready for that—not yet—but perhaps, one day, she will be.


Eris and Aphrodite: The Gods of Survival

August 16, 2009

Aphrodite and Eris: love and discord. One might think that these two goddesses share little in common – the former is concerned with bringing people together; the latter with tearing them apart – but they have more to do with each-other than one would assume.

For several years, the idea that Eris is Aphrodite and Ares’ daughter has stuck with me. I am unsure where the idea came from—Eris is described as Ares’ sister, and therefore as Zeus and Hera’s daughter, or else as Erebus and Nyx’s daughter by the classical writers—but it is an idea that has pervaded my thoughts for as long as I’ve known of their mythologies. Perhaps it is that Eris’ name is so similar to Eros’, or that she seems the opposite of both Harmonia and Eros, who are both described as children of Aphrodite. Perhaps it is none of these – just a whim inspired by nothing at all. Perhaps not.

Aphrodite and Eris share something that can, and is, offered to them: apples. The myth of Eris’ role in the Trojan War—the golden apple of discord, inscribed with the word kallistē, which was awarded to Aphrodite by Paris—is infamous. Apples, of course, have the symbolism of sexuality, sexual seduction, forbidden things and knowledge. It is fitting, then, that it went to Aphrodite, mother of Love and Seduction, as opposed to Hera or Athena.

Both of the goddesses are linked also by their domains. Aphrodite rules the heart – love, hate, obsession, need; and Eris, too, rules the heart – fury, discontent, anger, rivalry. Aphrodite caresses those who gain her favour, bringing them carefully to their full potential; and Eris takes a different approach, striking with tooth and nail until their skin is hard enough to protect their fragile souls from those who would harm them.

As goddess of love, Aphrodite overlaps her domain with Eris: both can be seen as goddesses of rivalry and competition. Aphrodite holds the epithets of Makhanitis and Apatouros – deviser and the deceptive one, respectively. Both, then, as goddesses of rivalry, are also goddesses of survival: for how can anything survive if it not constantly challenged and forced to change? These goddesses both contribute to the survival of everything—the flowers that become brightly coloured to attract bees; the rabbits that develop faster legs; the primates that walk upright and begin to develop speech—nothing is without their influence, and so nothing can legitimately claim existence beyond their influence.

Finally, both Eris and Eros are credited, sometimes, as being children of Nyx; and at the same time, Aphrodite holds the epithet Melainis (black; of night). Aphrodite, then, is linked to the Protogenos goddess of night, and Eris and Eros are named children of night. Both Aphrodite and Eris are called companions of Ares, too; as goddesses of rivalry, of strife, of pulsing hate.

Regardless of whether or not they are mother and daughter, though, there is no denying that they are closely linked. Without them, there could be no survival; without them, there would be nothing.


Thoughts on Aphrodite

August 11, 2009

Aphrodite is the goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. She is the kisses between lovers, the smile on a newborn’s lips, and the endless beauty of all. She is present in anything and everything, and she is a goddess both divine and strangely mortal. She averts unlawful desires and puts a stopper on age and death. She is common to all, the blush in the cheeks of never-been girls and boys alike. She is armed with her unstoppable love, and yet she does not create it: she does not create the spark between lovers, but she massages it, soothes it, until it blazes like a bonfire. She is sensuality and hunger, she is addiction, youth and bounty. She is the goddess of all, of mortality and infinity alike, and she strikes with hard kisses and unrelenting love.

She is not brainless and foolhardy. She is Apatouros, the deceptive one, and she is Makhanitis, the deviser. She laughs and loves with equal vigour. She repays ills in the way she best knows how; she loosens her children on those who would take advantage of her laughter-loving nature, and she presses hazy kisses to those who ask for her love. She does not accept the uglier things; simmering rage and poisoned words have no place in her house. She forgives with readiness and golden smiles, and she plucks at the heartstrings of humans and gods alike. She is born again and again, in the hearts of men and women, in the laughter of babes. She is ever-present, ever-strong, and ever-ready to fall in love, time and time again.

She is not weak. She is a force which threatens even the oldest of the gods. She is born of heaven alone, of fate and prophecy, of the endless sky and the brilliant day. Even the dead cannot resist her touch, her whispers. She is the most loyal subject of Phanes, reborn as her most loyal subject after Zeus devoured him. Perhaps she is Phanes: perhaps she truly is everything. She is music and sex, blood and honey, life and death. She is the climax of passion, she is the beating of hearts. She drives everything, kisses everywhere, touches everyone.

Her children drive the world. Without her, and without them, there could be nothing. There would be no children to spread their fingers and wave at their anxious parents, hovering nearby. There would be no laughter, no desire, no love. Her children and her train are her better sides: it is easy to overlook her birth from fury and blood. She is drawn to the soft curves of her own vengeance – to Adonis, her beautiful hunting boy – and, simultaneously, to the violence and hatred of War. She explodes with life, fills human shells with richness and longing, and she softens it all with her golden laughter. She is guilty of all and yet entirely blameless, a child and a mother, a lover of all.

She brings reciprocal and unrequited love, Anteros; terror and panic, Deimos and Phobos; longing and desire, Pothos and Himeros; harmony and strife, Harmonia and Eris; seduction and fertility, Peitho and Priapos; and love, Eros.

She is the goddess of prostitutes and hermaphrodites, of anyone who would dare to be different. She commands respect without inspiring terror, and she blesses marriages and heroes alike. She is the ally of any who would ask, she joins the Mousai in their dances and song, she plays a role, even, in the workings of the Moirae. She is the unavoidable love, the unstoppable kiss, the endless passion and desire. She is the war and the peace, the terror of oneself and the greater world, she is the child and the crone, the always-ready nursemaid and the patron of voyagers and brides. She pushes for individuality without alienating oneself from one’s family, and yet she smiles and accepts when one reaches one’s limits. She is cruel and gentle, lovely and hateful, and she brings victory in love and war alike with her soft hands and ready smiles.

She is Aphrodite.