Poetic excerpt from story in progress

About a month ago I began working on a story based around the question: What if ancient Greece had never fallen? What if it became a hegemonic power, subsuming Rome's military culture, utilizing the technology of myth and magic to create a society rivaling any science fiction tractor beam or ray gun? What if Jesus never actually died on the cross, and his followers became more about monastic living than crusades? And yes, I will confess, I'm potentially dabbling in the frequently, badly done domain of ill advised steam punk.

And predictably, like with all my stories, it came to a halt only ten pages in as I ran out of steam (no pun intended) and interest, as my love of the daily ritual of poetry took me away from the focus required to put out anything as substantial as any form of narrative.

But then I just had to say fuck it.
Let's throw the narrative into a blender and add a poetic angle.

So here is a bit of the madness ensuing when the prose breaks down, decides it no longer wants to play with prude sense, and gets naked in the grit.

(the main character has been divided into three parts. This is one of those three finding it's way back home)

All the while the argument raged on, Sophia slipped out of consciousness while the healer examined her and she immediately transgressed, or perhaps, transcended, into a point of the triangle she could only vaguely describe as the partiel her spirit had begun to rotate in. Like a warschak test finally fulfilled by focus, she felt the blade of the Hera-kind in her amygdala, running, just running, until anything seemed familiar enough to make the blue fire recede into the background.

I smell the originator..

She whose skin is our skin, but yet is not at all us

I mean me

I mean...how

how am i?

I am she, and yet she is not me

She smells like sex and dirt,

she is a rutting stag and yet she wears the garland of asphodel about her hair

Am I a daughter of Spring,  a bastard of Dionysus?

No, she is not god kind

I smell her sex,

it is not metallic like the merging that made me

I must go to her,

surely she knows why the moon no longer echos my song back to me

(see silverbeam too knows what it is to create out of craters, to make the pock marks of one’s face the most grandiose cameo of all - a lunar visage)  

surely she knows how to help me vibrate again

until I am the sword the cuts the night

into a thousand palatable experiences

There is her window, these are her people. She sleeps like Endymion.

But the one, yes, he calls himself daddy,

he is a knife in the dark that she will never see coming

The Moon Chase

The owl chimed at my reluctance to make the moon my lover

Who needs a lunar amour,

when I have the sun to burn away

the engravings left by

fairies to summon the nightshade

they mistook as the real

me

Yes, let this smoke

empty before the moon is full,

or else she will conjure up this roadside demon

that hitchhikes in the night

hoping to find prey

for her white light

all are moths to this infernal lamp

we ignore the breasts meant to infuse

us back to our wild sense

and take the path arcing toward oblivion

hoping it will be a guide for the lack in the

black sky of self

The moon says the sky is not your vulture

that is the shadow you keep seeing weaving on the plains

of your inner sanctum

She is where you recover the art of becoming

You cannot burn yet because you haven’t even brought her

the libations of id and ego,

she will serve them back to you

as a latte that tastes like the recovery

of cinnamon,

this is the sweet taste of kerosene

that finally lets you be the torch you always wanted

to be, hanging on a pillar, in this temple floating

in the dark