The Dark Feminine


I did not come to be fetishized
Although, in it I delight
breasts pert & severed,
served rare,
I am Morrigan’s wolfish stare

Did the soft woman curdle your plight?

Conditionally loved divinity,
pickled femininity,
vacuum pack my bodyscape
fermented grace,
a wildness to be encased

within the shadow’s gentle step, we carry on

fill him with your holy sanction
a tattered spool unravels
trample his erection
sever his head
gifted purpose & legs wide spread

Oh chaos set me a flame, make them new again

burn away the eternal infraction
they want you fresh, Baba Yaga rejected
one will, divided by two
Lips part with honey and spice
all at the cost of paradise

Blood of the womb, blood of the fire

What of myself am I denying?
complying to the image of profane
wars fought for this picture of love,
embrace the reflection
seduce the mirror of imperfection

Untethered; dark and light interwoven

speaking the truth of my hearts desire
a soft cadence played under the moonlight
tamed patience
I am not lost, only advancing
I am but on the cusp of dancing

The Wild Woman reclaimed, as much she allows.



The Ache


Why have we strayed so far away from our roots to find some appropriated facsimile of so called “home”?
I have inklings of memory: memory of lost love, of dust; memory of battles, blood, and wine. Of words I don’t understand but I still feel. I remember, I guess I’ve always remembered.

Modern blood lines and blurred borders. Unsavoury connections, and disheartening observations. All connected to recent descendants – my own disdain for my living lineages; an eschew of comfortably strayed spiritually stunted children. Rejecting the idea of tribal law, generations of memory traded for what?
Stucco siding and a manicured flower garden. Handicapped by choice, because a life of feigned ignorance is an easy life.

“Bah” I said “Not me!”

I abhor not the people but the aspects of society that twisted the warrior within myself towards such disapprobation. How could I be a guardian to anyone, or any place with such contempt for the present? And I do so see myself as a guardian in training to this gracious Turtle Island. Whether or not I live up to that, is not for me to say.
Those who have pained she who moulded me, she who gave me life, she of whom I want always to protect. I -within the constrains of my audacious hero syndrome- hold such an fierce anger towards them.

These broken ones have unpurposefully bruised and tarnished my bond to what once was (old lang syne). Hands in the air, Nose up, and lip curled I refused their fear of living. Often to a fault.

Although – sometimes, I do this with far too much an of adolescent attitude. This upheaval has to end. I am tired of being an earthquake all of the time. I want to be a calm sea, a night sky, I want to be a forest fire.
We are all connected, and I enjoy educating myself in worldly theology, fable and history. I enjoy understanding its correlation and curious connection to lands far from each-other’s conscious reach. Finding comfort in our shared stories. Stories and stardust, its what we’re all god damn made of.
But why stray so far? Why embrace and consume so much culture, but only taste the scent of where my parentage was birthed? The foundation of my ambiguous DNA.
My loyalty lays not within my given family, but with the one I found; my alliance is with the lushness of the world; and my pride now lays deep in my blood. I’m finding it’s wild flames again, as the dragon of my heritage is awakens. Unslayable, waiting to be claimed.
So far back in to where I see in my dreams; the myth and narrative that the ancestors hum in to my ear, trickling down my fingers, tickling and intoxicating my tongue.

“LISTEN” they say, “LOOK” they demand.

I am neither here, nor there. Too far ahead and too far back; blessed now with tangible anchors, to the world I adore. My rebellion suddenly with a cause. My feet suddenly more grounded than ever. How terrifying.

We are all indigenous to somewhere, they whisper to me. But where? and why doesn’t it seem matter like it should on the surface to most people I meet – could they truly believe themselves to be a cause so lost that it isn’t worth an excavation? Children born of nothing, and tethered to nowhere.

Don’t you feel the pang from those and that of which has been left behind, the ache of hunger in you craving something more? That depressed cavern in your body that eats away at your voice and leaves behind self loathing and oblivion. What if it wasn’t as empty as it seemed but instead filled with the emaciated peoples we only remember in dreams. Not dead, not alive, less they be fed. The longing lingers for something real, something that tells us we belong. That somewhere there is a place that longs for us. Do you feel it?

I do.


A letter to home


Dearest Inter-worldly Cosmonaut,

My tongue is split and raw due to your terrified punishment; I believe these days they call it patriarchy. I remember your lush endorsements to philistinism, all those acres equal to incarceration –
Despite the clever custom bondage for the firsts consort, I never was called to linger in your garden of restriction.
Or was it called by some other name? It’s been so long I have forgotten everything but the truth.

Daddy I have been bad.

The seared hearts they vagabond along with me, as I have for centuries; and apples are clearly the best of fruit.
a melange of pleasure and pain beckoning us home.
Home? What is this home of which your longings are fated to? The extradited damnation embraced as fodder. Walk on, nomadic and solitary – finding home and other wanderers in a place far older than your recollection.

How tired you must be – carrying the sheathe of the immortal soul in your domain
How lonely you must be – for you cannot own me; or anyone at all for that matter.

How it must be burdensome
but know this-

When your ancestry recovers,
as it trickles down your being
when you become saturated in memory
drenched and ragged
in your lieu
your seat is

Love Always,

-The Wanderers

Art Credit:


Love without Fear

Whatever your lifestyle, whatever your gender or race, whomever you pray to, however you choose to express yourself: we are all in this together. And we are all being damaged by the same outdated narrative in love.

By publicly acknowledging our generations of woundedness we are not admitting defeat or weakness, we are not pointing fingers or laying blame – in fact it’s quite the opposite.
By choosing to speak we are breaking the spell of continued social projection. We are creating a space to house an understanding that each of us is not alone, that this empathic field of consciousness beyond blue screens is not in our heads. By being authentic and vulnerable we are strengthening the awareness of deep relating.

While we’ve been on the front-lines of shattering our own existence; we know it is wrong, but we carry on in fear that no other story awaits us. We fear the destitute poverty we cling to -the bones we chew ragged- are all that there is.
We have near forgotten how to act together – how to take a leap into the glorious unknown.

This is in our Psyche, bound as she is with her beloved Eros – it is suppressed but NOT lost.
We wrote the stories and myths to serve as breadcrumbs, a way to remind ourselves how to recall the road to home.
There is a blind leap to somewhere new, but strangely familiar. Somewhere past the darkness.

Fortunately -along with the flesh and sinew- love is all that we are, and it can be our greatest gift; if wielded skillfully and without fear.
Loving: a skill that should be taught.
We are living in a time where apprenticing ourselves to the scholarship of love is a vital step to support a sustainable future of humanity.

Through this, as a collective I believe we can heal our world.

Easier said than done? Of course it is.
What that has ever been worth a damn hasn’t been fated to struggle?
When was the last time you achieved any sort of epiphany with ease; an “Aha!” moment that formed you on a fundamental basis that didn’t bring you to your ragged knees?

We are not inherently cowards as Human beings, that tiresome shit is learned behavior via a polluted culture and a broken environment. At our core we are Warriors of Love. Fearless if we learn to be as such.

It’s time, lets go.


Fractured social structured transitions;


From Goddess – to- Queen -to- The Reliably Objectified -to- The Harlot.
Rinse and repeat; this is what is terrorizing the women of our culture.

Constant shifts in surface level external mindstate; inability to differentiate between the self and others projections. This empathic alcoholism; these hearts poisoned by attentiveness. Leading to apathy by our exasperated and depleted sense of worth.

Are we Mothers? Virgins? Or are we Whores? are we none or all of thee above?

We are flesh; and soul; bone and spirit. A perfect harmony to the masculine. When the Divine masculine is skilfully embodied- the Sacred feminine thrives; and vice versa.

Smarten the fuck up.  You, you and you. Yes you.

“The whore is traditionally regarded as a symbol for sin; this is because we have a distorted and illogical attitude to the sex act which is anti-life.
The whore sells sex so therefore is peddling a commodity that has already been contaminated by mainstream religions, patriarchy and capitalism.
Ishtar the compassionate whore has also been called Har or Hora – from which the words harlot and whore sprang. In Ishtar we see a mixing and vindication of spirituality and sex. The perception of this emotive term – ‘whore’ – is complex and multi dimensional.
For most people it is not a concept that can be easily intertwined with spirituality. Although the contemporary sex industry has within it women that are broken, abused and addicted, they are not all victims. Camellia Paglia describes harlots as not being the casualties of men, but rather their ‘conquerors’. To her the whore is an ‘outlaw who controls the sexual channels between nature and culture.’”

Read more here


Ancient Babylonian songs and reoccurring myth


“What really lasts in this world? What dies, what can be revived? Are humans basically the same now as in ancient times? I was left pondering these questions after listening to singer and composer Stef Conner’s album The Flood. It’s probably the first ever to be sung in ancient Sumerian and Babylonian, and it’s hauntingly beautiful’

A direct link to these haunting ancient babylonian songs/soundcloud (I have had them on repeat for over an hour; and am contemplating remixes and personal renditions)

and my personal favourite.

Ishtar was the babylonian goddess of love, war, fertility, and sexuality.

A complex deity, Ishtar combined the characteristics—both good and evil —of many different goddesses. As a benevolent mother figure, she was considered the mother of gods and humans, as well as the creator of all earthly blessings. In this role, she grieved over human sorrows and served as a protector of marriage and motherhood. People also worshiped Ishtar as the goddess of sexual love and fertility. The evil side of Ishtar’s nature emerged primarily in connection with war and storms. As a warrior goddess, she could make even the gods tremble in fear. As a storm goddess, she could bring rain and thunder.’ Continue reading


Archetypal Grace: The Ever Tenacious Woman


Given my ever growing fascination with history, myth and the collective subconscious; today my thoughts have wandered to some of my mother’s musings from when I was a child. I am unsure if at the time she was aware of the benefits I was absorbing… then later on interpreting and building upon.

She went on to tell me in great detail and conviction about how the mother Mary was essentially the goddess reintegrating herself in to the now dominant religion; that whatever faith would appear in our hearts her carnation would closely follow.
Given that planted thought i noted quickly (never underestimate the mind of a youth) that what was once the mother maiden and the crone was now the father, son and the holy ghost.

I learned later on in life as my studies grew that the triple goddess AND the triple god were prominent aspects of most major faiths, myths and even modern media.
Although there was one large exception I observed. In the predominant Christian stories the triple god was prevalent but the triple goddess was short one strong member: there was no strong crone figure to finish that divine trinity. Although there was female elder figures none of them played quite an equal/strong role as Mary the mother or Mary the maiden. The crone represents endings, wisdom, finalities; death. The final piece of a puzzle, saving us from a harrowing oblivion.

But why is this? Continue reading