The Norns

his body pierced with tubes,
like St. Sebastian's arrow-pierced corpse
hanging like a pin cushion

from an ancient tree,
bathed in white fluorescent light
insufficient to reveal

the three dark Norns, aka Moerae (the Fates)
alighting on his chalk-white body:
Urd, called Atropos, mistress of the past,

aged cutter of life's thread;
Skuld, called Lachesis, mistress of the present,
the hidden transporter of souls;

Verdandi, called Clotho,
mistress of the future,
spinner of the thread.

Urd is the first to bend,
taking the prune's withered prick,
rejuvenating it with her ancient mouth,

as Verdani mounts him,
her supple thighs squeezing
his ears as she covers

the prune's gasping mouth and nose
with her fertile gasping cunt,
Skuld content

to listen to the screams of the half-souls
struggling to escape
the prison of his balls.

Urd feasts on the prune's now youthful shaft
the liver spots fading from his
burgeoning muscles,

his abundant hair
spread upon his pillow,
a smile on his youthful

spirit face,
as Urd pulls 50,000 pains,
legions of remembered atrocities,

memories of proffered silken breasts,
the dark veil of ignorance
from his pulsing shaft

drinking their wonders and their ache,
even as Verdani's succulent gash
inhales the fleeing horrors

that would escape in his dying breath.
His glowing spirit body
collapses like a pricked balloon

as the sisters digest the thoughts
and dreams that would plague him
even into death.

They listen to the symphony
of screaming oscilloscopes,
as an army of white-clad meddlers

pours into the room,
eager to reanimate
the prune's lifeless shell.

The three sisters
flee to the call of pain,
the place where women writhe

in the sweetest of agonies.
Urd drinks the prune drop that remains
in Verdani's angelic hood,

then passes it to Skuld's hungry womb,
blowing into her like a bellows,
even as Skuld dons

the screaming woman's skin,
mixing her birth rage with her own,
expelling the demon into the midwife's prying hands

hearing its cry of terror as it drinks its first breath,
shakes its wrinkled limbs as the prune
stares at the forms of the three

that mortals never see,
until that memory passes too
leaving only the momentary emptiness

of the newly born.