Rave Club Mythos Dream

Wart-infested toes. High Heels, skull necklaces,

licorice on my tongue. Dancing to a song on half-speed.

Jumping at a rave. Those raving mad ravens:

they're flapping their black wings

and in rhythm to the blaring bass drops. I could see

it in the dubstep haze

a man on a tightrope. He wore a silver box

like a washing machine. He had two hammers. He beat

the washing machine and walked the tight rope.

BANG, like the hottest fire. BANG, like

the resonating earth. He banged and banged

his silver box.

Fire, fire, fire. Oh, how it trickles and ventilates.

Ravens flapping their pretty black wings.

Blood in the air. Phlegm in the water.

I picked up my sword. The lights flashing;

this needs a strobe warning. I saw that man

that creature coming:

I fought him. I fought Odin.

He charged straight at me while on his big black horse.

The dancers and clubbers parting to some

distant Viking chanting.

Two horns on his head, like two dueling peaks.

Frogs falling from the sky. I'm drunk

on circular white pellets. I'm drunk

on the burst of snow. Slash

and dash this Nordic legend. Ravens,

why do the ravens keep gathering?

Stitch together my stitches with rose petals.

Place two coins on my eyes. Let me

travel down rivers. I could have been

your Frigg or Friia.