It is a curiosity of the Book, and an apparent danger to someone not in its presence, that once you become intoxicated that you might in a dazed fug flip through leaf after leaf and fall further from the External. Even the slight touch of the floral fibres meshed within the page propels a reader on a precipitous psychic journey. Becoming Inside the Book is a beauty to behold but like a stumble into the steadings of the Sidhe, or the forests of the Fae, wonderers forget where Home is.


at Love’s command
i had sent
my misrule, my horde of
whelping, cussing, franzied,
to Iceland
(or at least that was my
well intentioned, intention)…
though whether they stopped off
at Atlantis
or the Isle of Avalon
on their Way
for a quick
Grail Quest or three
then it was up to
Berserkers to do
what Berserkers do best…

i stood on the pier
eyes wide and full
and to their cheering cries
waved and wished their
golden-shield-bossed) SnowSearcher
a bientot…bis balt…
see you later, alligator…
drums a-pounding out
sword-steel shining out
voices ringing out
their Jet-Black-Raven-Black wings
caressed the
Horizon Beyond.
goodbye Berserkers, goodbye!


my berserkers, they
ran across a mariachi band
(at least that was how
they spelt it
in their excited scribble
on a dove’s leg’s note)
at first they were
confused, perplexed, unsure of
what a berserker should do,
not lucid whether what berserkers do best,
would be for the best
in this unique (for them)
musical situation.
then Red_Haze told them
in the resounding
hall-filling, basso profundo tones
that only a magic sword
can conjure from
its steely, cold-sharp heart
that they should dance with
the senoritas…
(…and what charming
eye-easy-samba-hipped senoritas
they were…!)

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