Bliss and I went to Boscawen Un
on the event of the Bloodmoon,
my cycle had dragged itself in tune,
having lived at the coast for three months ooo.

I bled Moonblood
as we passed through the threshold,
without asking permission.
The air changed, a depersonalisation happened.
The circle of granite and quartz throbbed, 0o0o0o
and I knew the magnetic pull of an MRI scan.
A druidess shook a rattle at the stones, talking to and stroking each one.
I felt them pulsing,
the quartz in particular.
I flopped, cradling the kingstone in my arms,
loving him and his septic coloured lichen-bristle.
I thought of Crowley and his cupcakes of Moonblood,
of Ithell Colqhoun and the silence of Vow Cave.

I was immanent.
I frottaged the male stone.
The woman with the eyes of Isis kept on rattling.
When able to feel the surface of things with my body,
deep penetration takes place.
Eternal return, I become the archetype.
My body: the portal.

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