His grin tickles me with its sharpness,
His breath sharp with the scent of death,
The sickly, rotting smell of roadkill.
I catch a glimpse of him from the corner of my eye,
teeth and dripping spittle,
Tearing the corpse apart so that it may be digested in his belly
This is Devouring Compassion;
Everything will die and rot, and will pass
I pick up the red clay, wet with my spit and blessed water and I begin to mold and carve, bit by bit, the details of the small skulls. There are Thirteen.
The candle-light is sinister, magical, like Anpu’s delighted grin…This is the land of spirits and Death. I offer the last of my coffee to Pixie, I still share this ritual with her. My head is spinning with euphoria, ecstasy… Wildness.
I have etched my devotion into small clay balls of skull.
Anubis is not a god booming orders down
from the heavens;
He delights in wild rapture and simple devotion-
Rituals of rupture and release.
This is not Spirit Being torn from the flesh
but married to it.
Each brutal caress, of spirit on bone, of blood on soul
Knits me closer
to Raw Godliness.
I fly by night- incense and caffeine floods my lungs and veins. I am drowning in the scent of Dog, of God; I give myself over to sacred passion and devotion, lost in the gentle violence of His Eyes.
All Writing and Photography copyright 2014 of Nightshade author of The Purple Broom