Often after the invocation, one is beset with the irresistible urge to lick one’s lips. Slick with breath and the seal of power, the tongue reaches for a taste. So the kiss is set to flesh, only to find a lingering sweetness. A hint of a delicious lavishness, some decadence drawn from the bent of direction. The bristling being a grateful flavor hustled from the gray ephemera. The bright in your belly poured on by the bursting moon. From the moment you can taste it.
It’s like that now, in the simple scramble of words strung from the line. This reward and imminence, the intersect of animal and urgency, the resonance of the altar. The deep drink of the night sticky on the lips. All that’s left to do is say it. The speaking that makes it so.
The moon swells, the mood swoons, keeling over at one glance of the majesty. Bowing down beneath the weight of full on moon, this divinity at once love and duty. The secrets loosed on hands and knees. The stories carried to the grave. I call the sign as I see them. I turn the lights off and the moon pours it on. The secret’s yours to play along.
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