by Wes Hansen
They ran from the bloody scene, two rebellious lovers left over from the brethren war. They had received the directions for the ritual from the wise old wizard reading from an oracle – ancient Egyptian bones. A necromancer, a whore, a curioso forever immortal, he was older than any artifact even when Trismegistus roamed the land, this a long while before the war. With a sleight of hand and in a voice virtuoso, he said they’d see two forces fighting but hadn’t warned them of the rest, or mentioned anything about a test. “Ran river, past the Mother and Son, by fetishism, a commodity between negation and renewal – magical system, around the bend and over the bow, you’ll find some places where need sink real low, but hang on to one another and you’ll eventually come out from under.” Next came some gibberish neither understood, drugs and blood, two minds made one, ripped asunder once again, a critical boundary painted in murderous blood, muscaria amanita . . . divine path to She the Divine One?
Of course, the old wizard knew all along the truth about Sati and her lover Shiva. He stood by and cheered: her devotion; her asceticism; her desire for her lover’s flesh. “Take eat,” he cried. “Take drink,” she replied. Oh, mercy and the serpent! Yes! She brings life forth and taketh life away like the Ouroboros fixed in eternity; She is the sow who eats her own litter; the Black One with Her tongue extended to catch the blood; approach Her with lust and She will destroy; approach Her with Love and She is the Ferry Across the Ocean of Existence. She, it is, who brings renewal! This all came later but before they ran scared.
They ran towards the light and through the automatic doors. They were in a supermarket – produce section – held in arrest by the dazzling brilliance of the organic carnival laid bare before. They breathed in the cold air becoming newly aware of each other’s beauty; his breath quickening with rising ardor, her nipples, hard and sensitive from the manufactured cold and the potential of the story, waiting to unfold. The man stepped forward taking up the plump, red, juicy fruit. He and his lover were affected like all other, an assault to sensual synapses – polymorphous perversity, bright colors on bound flesh, stretched taunt, waiting to burst forth with sweet nectar. The woman read as much in the man’s bright, feverish eyes as he sank his teeth into the fruit’s succulence; she watched the juice course down his chin, sighed with unquenchable hunger and bit into the red flesh.
They kissed and the orgasm came like Napoleon on his great white steed; lands discovered and conquered between quickened breaths; clothing torn and tossed aside; budding flesh teased with hunger and need; villages plundered, lands raped, and stores pillaged – violence contained in ecstasy – a sacrament proving that the temple is everywhere. And the temple was filled with a chorus of Shrieking Angles, sharp horns and hollow bowls, cut up and spliced like a Niblock drone. She put her head back and screamed; he thrust out his heart and moaned, a pulsing beat, crying out her name – to Sati, with Love.
The erotic smell of spent fertility, like freshly turned earth rich in humus, brings thought back to that most sacred furrow quivering in the aftermath of recent pleasure. The olfactory, gently assaulted by the feminine dew rising from the furrow’s delicate petals, creates masochistic images tempered by love and some mute sense of self-transmigration. Tantric intuition persevering in the deep recesses of our common psyche, bringing forth the Divine Comedy, a gamma ray burst made manifest in the hero’s mind. He leans forward, a willing supplicant come to worship Yoni. Shiva the Destroyer, Lord of Yoga, brought forth from his self-imposed exile by the pristine austerities of Parvati, Queen Avatar of the Divine Kali. Shiva, infused with Shakti; the Solar King reunited with the Lunar Queen – to Sati, with Love.
They came out of the comedy in a vintage Cadillac full of bullet holes with the top down and the seats torn. They were naked, their bodies covered in dry musky sweat. They held each other’s hand and stared forward with determination spawned by the bliss of discovery. It had been some time since the cold winds of infinite ages had coursed unchecked across the exposed landscape, raising awareness, exposing the mystery. They felt like conquerors who had in turn been conquered, their innards laid bare; fear and desire negated by the beautiful journey which began with the ritual, a call to adventure – to Sati, with Love.
The Gamma Ray Burst
Detonated in Our Minds;
Revealing the Ancient Fragments,
Fragments Born from the
Unmoved Movers,
Unmoved Movement;
Ghost Mother,
Send Me a Shockwave,
Remind Me that Our Blood
Is of the Same Well!