(More lyrics for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)

It crawls up the wall
This vulture. Clinging onto
Concrete forests, hunched,
Beak in a dirt trough.

Let’s watch it,
Give it a chance…
Slowly, head raises, twitches,
Wings set in posturing gesture.

Suddenly beak opens, dirt vomits,
Spewing gall and bile.
A fine mist of poison,
Seeping in.

The vulture picks the bones,
Pulling at what’s left –
Tendons, sinews, marrow, blood –
And waits for more corpses brought.

It purrs and caws
Testing its voice, the range of tone, the
Lies. And how the ears and eyes
Receive them.

It practices a death song,
Over and over, repeated and chanted,
Louder and louder until
The ears accept it.



Brocken Spectre

(Lyrics written for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)




Rich descendant of its

Poor and stupid ancestors.

Hoard-obsessed giant,

Arms wide on its mountain.


“Oh yes, I am the light.

A rainbow shines out of my face.

Shadow-cast your little minds with

Crazed joy – keep you in your place.”


We are of dust and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


Feet fused with foundations of rock,

Too much time to roar and stare.

If its face had formed, it would have

Mouth contorted in a grimaced grin.


Delirium – you’re blind to its cloud-stride,

Trembling bones at laughter’s crack,

Shivering in spatters of cold rain.

Yet the little feeble chant comes back:


You are of mist and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


(That poor mortal tragedy,

Necks bent, shuffling in the dark.

Overshadowed by the mountain giant,

Ever crawling through the mud.)


Poor giant, as the light dims,

This light illusion blurs and breaks –

The cloud shifts, disturbed and rolling,

Pierced through by jagged peaks.


It ends, curled up, foetal,

Imagining its mother’s arms

But falling through dispersing fog

Turning to a broken ghost.

Brocken Spectre


‘Tis Beltane, where the boastful sun does go
To battle with the shady twinkling frost.
So gather you to kneel and quiver so,
Lest grasses thin and herd grows gaunt and lost.

Show they all, in shortened sleeves and looks,
To meadows come, beholden to the sun.
Their essence bulges out as tiny brooks,
And onward to the salted cradle run.

See a lass, with yellow flowered hair –
She will draw like waxing sun the men,
To light their fires and place their maypole there.
With rising heat, ah… raise that trunk again,

And we can twist and twirl our ribbon dance.
A few sips of a sweetened mushroom brew,
And here Queen Passion reigns our fiery prance…
Protected by a veil of honeyed dew.

And he who gentle cups a warming hand,
To give heat to a long-preparing tree…
Shall see small petals, on his thumb unfanned…
The fragrant blossom opens to the bee.

Come we all to revel, fear, and lust:
‘Tis Beltane, and we hope the fates be just.