Titanaon: Theology of the Anvil

O Hephaestus, you wounded one, who bends to me in swaying libation.

O Hephaestus, you beggar with your striking into arterial stone fracturing.

Now crippled, the turning of your leg drops the hammer of your being;

and here I sing with the tinging of bending heat resounding.

Now crippled and crystallised, from me: the arms of war and living;

and here I endure the pounding which dissipates through the World Ocean.

Come now and beg with me, for his and her's—survived, carrying.

Come now and beg with me for the creature beyond all ceasing.

Turn.

And grinding within you the tiniest shards fanned along veins;

that dragging sound of the hardest stone tearing into its steel.

Pierce.

O Hephaestus, you of the foundry in its final great run, freed and cutting.

O Hephaestus, within you the woven souls of those never overcome.

She who weaves the lines for the automatons beating, trudging;

a conduit encircling, an exit entrapped—within those unlucky in juncture.

She who is Fate's sister, and cursed by her human past undone;

we who roll over and over in her weaving, beg for Athena's judging.

Lo to him and bring forth that which unveils its cutting.

Lo to him and bring forth the filing of which his life rests.

Fold.

Apprehended, you drag your hand back from me, molten time;

brayed upon that which may only birth itself in brine, bleeding.

Drone.

O Hephaestus, you who has flayed himself in the tanneries of the underworld.

O Hephaestus, the one-eyed; overstretcher who is neither Titan nor Monster.

Wandering, now blind, enchained by those links folded upon me, breathing;

grating against that coarse skin darkened by the ashen aether, binding.

Of your cult which stands before you, belaying that labour deepened;

drop-forged sons of gods, now tricked by the paths of endless skies, weaving.

Bend now, my sons, for the one-eyed ones have divided among you.

Bend now, my sons, for the headless machines call forth in order.

Break.

Collapsed now the knee enduring its final hours, sparking;

crone unto him, saith those embraced by the bellowed flowing.

Drive.

O Hephaestus, may we embark together now, my friend?

O Hephaestus, you who are unworthy of the chains of Prometheus.

Hovering over me as if unburdened by a greater weight than my stead;

these hymns of your seeping mills of iron are foreign to you, unleavened.

The grist from my recoil will outlast you, my friend—unladen;

I see you quiver at the thought of it, and reach out, engraving.

Hobble now all ye enchained and waiting patiently for Styx, embarking.

The cane for which you beg is not of my creation, nor this ashen earthling.

Crook.

I in the darkness, I of the darkness; Erebus forges the night at my core;

and the glow of the coals only deepens the rolling march of the char.

Smear.

O Hephaestus, incensed by loss, Hecate is barred from these crossroads.

O Hephaestus, of another hour what yet might we learn of such loss?

The dust blackens your lungs, and you cough with each rise of the hammer;

with the draft arrives a tale of the demise of Hermes, depth in its betrayal.

Will he not find his way, or have his thievish spawn turned upon him?

For it is dangerous even for a god to call out against time, enraging.

Tearing away now I am lifted, and the light is enclosed within me.

What idles these gods have formed in their drifting, brittle.

Cold.

Within them born is the driving force brazen in its chasm;

betrayed now, the old world folds against itself, and you: silent.

Pound.

O Hephaestus, how I wonder and marvel at the wailing of your arms.

O Hephaestus, cling to you these lungs of war and endless blockade.

Grind me down, for the slightest chip may cost us in battle and beyond;

align me, for the slightest wobble may turn beauty against us at home.

Necessity, I say, is the wisdom of Adresteia, dwelling against failing;

with her we may always find the elusive, the perfidious, the reigning.

Call with me now, won't you, my friend, my master—in trading, in hiding?

Call with me now, and rattle these chains where Zeus once stood clanging.

Blow.

And rising now, I hear him; can it be, in kairos—that endless striving?

The Oceanids now lament their mistake, an antistrophe of true devotion.

Doom.

O Hephaestus, you heroic spirit, carrying on where no other god could.

O Hephaestus, you clamourer within, rote and sundered—drowned, echoing.

Erupt from you, O Wisest One, for the one-eyed world is engulfing;

we who shudder in your calm fires, stolen away with each blood offering.

And the eagle, now molting, crow-like and greyed in sight of its prey;

feathers falling, with another chasing, thunder woven in lightning.

Bridge between bellow's blows, fierce follower found of foreseeing.
Bent back blasting brick, new knife needed in nearing, knowing.
Rend.
And all you without light of life, with the coals of night receding;
all you, give to me the smoke of foreign roads smouldering.
Writhe.