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That Heart Is A Haunted Mansion: An On-The-Tongue ...

That Heart Is A Haunted Mansion: An On-The-Tongue Chat ‘Neath the Waning Moon

danille dulsky the house of twigs thot harvest moon autumn witchery pilgrim freak

Moon of Corn, Moon of Crow

Tell us what those old gods know

Oh, rest yourself right here by my fire, weary traveler. I’d know that determined look in your eyes anywhere, and perhaps I can teach you a thing or two about that Harvest Moon lust that has stolen away your beloved. You see, something happens to a Witch on these late-summer evenings when the moon is waning, when those so subtle, so spectral vibrations buzz a bit louder in her ears, when those crows croon somber songs of ancient mist and jewel-orange flame; she can hear them, you see, and her heart becomes a cobwebbed, dark-walled haunted mansion once again.

Forgive me for being rude. Let me introduce myself; I’m the loyal gatekeeper who sits atop her tongue and welcomes those who seek entry into the possessed, flesh-covered hotel that is her autumn-hungry body. She may let you in but beware of the many bloodied ghosts that roam those halls that are her veins. They march in unison to her pulse-beat, but, make no mistake, they have minds of their own, these spirits. Whisper-hissing prayers to those Dark Goddess crone deities, they are. Bidding her commune with those wild-eyed shadows that have taken up residence in the creaky-boarded attic of her mind, they are.

You’re sure to meet a cackling hag who sits on her highest ribs, dangling her legs and skipping stones in her blood. She’s a trickster, that one, and she’ll speak in riddles and rhymes that make you rethink your sanity. If you get passed her, there’s a hooded, skull-faced sorceress dancing atop the warm tissues of her raw, thumping heart and hanging twig-and-ribbon protection symbols from her thickest, indigo-striped arteries. She’ll try to enchant you if you look too closely, so keep moving, lest you’ll be forever entombed behind the ribs of that witching one you love so dearly.

Wrapped round her spine and building ritual fires atop her liver are two black-haired twins with mischief in their eyes. Stitching sigils onto her bowels is a madwoman who’s long been betrayed by those who claimed to love her. They’ll test your intentions, these three. They’ll do all they can to make you forget your way home.

If you do make it to that wide and holy well that is her sacrum- and I do hope you make it, pilgrim- you’ll be sure to meet that long-limbed, red-eyed demoness that rules them all. She’s been slow-brewing a tonic just for you since the nights grew longer. She’s been humming the very siren song that lured you in. You’ll be taken with her; everyone is. You’ll want to curl up inside that dripping ivory pelvic nest she’s built for you.

Be warned, traveler. If you stay too long, your life belongs to her, and you, like me, will become a ghost that haunts this moon-loving body. You, too, shall forever slow-dance to her heart-drum, eternally entranced by the rhythm of her breath. You might think that her death will herald your release, that when your story has ended and the worms burrow through her hardened skin, when the electric sparks in her cells deaden and those luscious lips you long for curl back ‘round her teeth… You might think then you’ll be free to go. Alas, even then, dearest, even then, you’ll belong to her wandering Witch’s soul until the sun swells to swallow us all.

So, what do you say? Do you still want in? If I’m being honest, I can see you’re already doomed. Go ahead and slide down her slick-coated tongue. The others are waiting for you, and I’ve got a fire to tend. It was lovely to meet you, pilgrim. All blessings on this twisted journey you’ve begun. Good night.

Laden with spice, bark, and loam,

Tucked away deep, that haunted home

Find her there now, brewing with bones

Find her there fast, casting those stones

Ask her to dance, maybe she will

But busy, she is, loving that thrill

Of thinning veils and harvest moons

Of smoke, of ghosts, of homemade runes

She woke up wild, that first cold dawn

And wild she’ll be, ‘til Autumn’s gone

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Danielle believes in the power of the wild feminine and human-to-nature intimacy. She is the author of The Holy Wild: A Heathen Bible for the Untamed Woman (Coming September 2018, New World Library) and Woman Most Wild: Three Keys to Liberating the Witch Within. She translates the wild feminine into motherhood, magick, multimedia art, and teachings of embodied spirituality, writing, and movement alchemy. Danielle is a Celtic free-style Witch, a lover of Irish Paganism, an E-RYT500 and YACEP through Yoga Alliance, a mist-dweller, and a shadow-walker. May all beings come home to the wilds.
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Danielle believes in the power of the wild feminine and human-to-nature intimacy. She is the author of The Holy Wild: A Heathen Bible for the Untamed Woman (Coming September 2018, New World Library) and Woman Most Wild: Three Keys to Liberating the Witch Within. She translates the wild feminine into motherhood, magick, multimedia art, and teachings of embodied spirituality, writing, and movement alchemy. Danielle is a Celtic free-style Witch, a lover of Irish Paganism, an E-RYT500 and YACEP through Yoga Alliance, a mist-dweller, and a shadow-walker. May all beings come home to the wilds.

Danielle believes in the power of the wild feminine and human-to-nature intimacy. She is the author of The Holy Wild: A Heathen Bible for the Untamed Woman (Coming September 2018, New World Library) and Woman Most Wild: Three Keys to Liberating the Witch Within. She translates the wild feminine into motherhood, magick, multimedia art, and teachings of embodied spirituality, writing, and movement alchemy. Danielle is a Celtic free-style Witch, a lover of Irish Paganism, an E-RYT500 and YACEP through Yoga Alliance, a mist-dweller, and a shadow-walker. May all beings come home to the wilds.

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