boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

How did it even start,

This fight?

The Sage of Holy Wind

Can’t really say,

she never can.

As always she is drawn

By the Wind’s beckoning call.

Drawn by whispered words

Of the Flashing Light’s fight

And her devilish foe.

That’s all she needs.


On those same gusts

She rushes

As she can

To the Light’s side.

A sudden guest

In the grueling conflict

She alarms them both,

The foe and the knight.

With a curse from both

And a grin from her

The combat continues

With desperation.


The foe has six arms

And three faces

All on one head,

A dreadful asura.

He swings six swords

With fiendish speed

And sings a song

Of hate that cuts deep

into the earth

Tearing it from her feet,

The King’s Blade.


She leaps up

Taking to the air

And calls down lights

That crash

With all the fury of thunder

Sped on by her own song

And Hope’s dire will.

Hope to protect.

Hope to save.

Hope to destroy.


His shout shakes the light

From the skies

And he lunges forth,

A dance of blades

Seeking gore and more.

His speed is great

But greater still

Is the Wind’s.

A gusting wave pushes him

Back and down.

He is thrown from the air,

The Fate Spinning Winds’ domain.


Grinning the Blade dives

Down and down

With righteous fury

And the blue glow

Of purest Light’s intent.

The ****** is sure, strong

And cracks like thunder.

The raging storm

Of Grimm’s good servant,

The Light’s own sage.


There is more to him

Than shouts and swords

And six arms though.

There’s a lack of care

And a burning hatred

For all the King’s men.

Many would run

Or raise up a shield

Guarding themselves from death.

But he welcomes it

Letting the blade run deep,

Piercing him through

and mortally so.

Then he catches the arm

That wielded the blade

And pulls down the Blade.


The fight seems over and done

From the Holy Wind’s high place

Her home, the air,

But a screech rings out.

Four devious daggers

Made of Darkness

Claim the King’s Blade,

Rending her flesh

And digging in deadly.

She is tossed aside

Like a toy

Bleeding and cursing

And ******.


The asura ****** too

Rises up

Rage incarnate

Blind and dumb

And unrelenting

To finish his job.

He raises up

An arm and then another

Before the shocked sage

Buffets him with a wind.

Tossed he turns

Terrific rage building more

And directs it at her,

The sage unbelieving.


Like a shock of silver

Cold and quick

To the gut and the heart

Is the fear mounting.

Fear for her,

Fear of loss

Of a friend, a lover dear,

Known for a thousands years

And hopefully a thousand more.

The Wind’s sing of necessity

And Fate.

Of life and death,

An air of change,

Unyielding in its march.

The tune is so welcome

Normally,

Though it seems so cruel.

Now it is dreaded,

Disbelieved.

Now it makes her pause,

Turning to look

Searching for life

In her partner dear.


Finding that hesitation

The asura jumps up high

Blades ready

And burning with demon fire,

But his arms are pulled back

And he is pulled down

By deep red chains

Of crimson fluidity,

Of blood.

They coil and cut

Like blades

Slicing an arm free

Then two, then three,

But he breaks free

Shrugging off bonds

With a scream.


From the floor she rises

The Flashing Light

Eyes aflame

With red fury

Brilliant and ominous

As the Red Moon.

From the Flashing Light spills

Blood like a torrent

Shaped into swords

As would the Light be.

The sound of his chant

Is cut short

By a wave of dark

Butterflies fluttering from her.

The sound of her chant

Rings out

Sending forth a wave

Of blood made blades.

Skewering, rending

Utterly ending the foe.

She rises a victor

Dripping blood,

And her wounds close

Fed blood.


She rises a vampire revealed

And fear falls

In the Holy Wind’s Heart.