Posts Tagged ‘Skin’


The Suppliant

December 20, 2009

I set myself down before you.
My bare skin glows in the hazy
Light that spreads down through the trees
And warms your dark, night-bound home.

Girls with twigs in the hair and clothes
Made of the finest spiders’ silks
Watch in silence; theirs is beauty
That is unmatched by all others.

Sobek, snarling god; I reach down
And let my hair fall over your
Dark, curved claws. My skin sings to be
So close to you, dangerous lord.

I brush my cheek against your throat;
I kiss your scaled skin. Smoky awe
Drifts between us. I bask in your
Divine presence, safe against you.



December 7, 2009

Kaleidoscope beauty trails over Aphrodite’s skin;
It gleams at the edges of her lips, the curve of her teeth.
Something hungry slithers through the shadows
That stretch far, far out behind her.


Hymn to Persephone

November 30, 2009

I sing of Persephone,
With spring dancing in her skin
And the taste of summer upon her lips.

I sing of Persephone,
With sun-kissed skin gleaming gold,
Still hot and lovely from the morning light.

I sing of Persephone,
With lovely, rich hair that falls
In a shimmering curtain, bright as shadows.

I song of Persephone,
With fair Eumenides waiting at her feet
And snakes rippling through their smoky hair.


Morning and Evening Invocations

November 24, 2009

MORNING – Mnemosyne
Mnemosyne, gatekeeper of memory;
I ask for your blessing on this day,
To stir my mind and help me gather my thoughts,
To let nothing important slide past my gaze,
To warm my mind with the touch of divinity, and
To help me remember all that I need.
Lethe, goddess of oblivion;
I ask that you rest your hands upon my head
And pour your forgetful waters over my skin,
To soothe away the troubles from my mind,
To calm my frantic thoughts, and
To help me find peace, so that I might sleep.


Read Write Prompt #14

October 9, 2009

Read Write Prompt #14: Love Poem to your Crooked Toes, or Writing An Ode.

Rhea-Kybele: the human body.

There is nothing in this world
Quite so lovely as the human body.
I pass golden fingers over their cold warmth
And delight in the boundary of their skin.
Sometimes, I hook my fingers under their ribs
And wait for the crunch, the snap,
That tells me I’ve found exactly what I was looking for.
And then I pull out their heart, still beating.

There is nothing in this world
Quite so lovely as the human body.
It is Aphrodite’s in life, and Persephone’s in death,
But, always, it belongs most to me.
I drive the needs of the limbs, the yearning
For completion, for sex. I drive childbirth,
That moment when everything changes, and
Nothing is as important as this new, fragile babe.

There is nothing in this world
Quite so lovely as the human body.
I adore it, truly. I kissed Attis as both boy and girl,
And loved neither more – I loved only the feel of his lips,
Then her lips; soft and firm, yielding and not.
The body doesn’t deny my pleasure; it wants me
As surely as a babe wants to breathe.
Nothing can change that, and nothing ever will.

There is nothing in this world
Quite so lovely as the human body.
The hair, silky-soft; the liquid eyes; the slope of the nose.
The rosebud lips; the gently-curved ears; the arch of the throat.
The smooth chest, breasts, stomach, lower.
Arms, wrists; thighs, toes.
Truly, is there anything so lovely as all of that?
I think not; and should I, a goddess, not know?

There is nothing in this world
Quite so lovely as the human body.
That is the truth, and that is life.



October 7, 2009

Harsh light, lowlight,
Fistfight, wild laugh;
Fever, passion.
The story of despair,
Smiling, night-black.

Snakes draped, poison clouds.
Burned if you touch, burned if you don’t.
Can’t stop me, can’t feel me,
But you know me,
And I know you.

I’m in you.
I smile with your lips,
Gaze with your eyes,
Fight with your fists,
Fuck with your skin.

War clings to me – child, snapshot,
Camera boy, poster child.
He’s nothing.
I’m the real bitch,
And I’ve only just begun.


I Fill the Space

October 7, 2009

I fill the space.
A love here, a kiss there.
Beating hearts, frenzied,
They break; I laugh.

I fill the space.
Lines drawn over skin,
Lips painted with blood.
It dribbles down my chin.

I fill the space.
Broken hearts, love-letters,
My grave grows warm,
My heart – delighted.

I fill the space.
I am remembered,
On lips and between legs;
In the breaths exchanged, the warmth.


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.