Witch

Tempestuous Testament

Anathema; Reviled and shunned, by my own hand, having written my own, detested story
Pages turned where the voice that speaks, my own, creaks with cursed harbingers –
That I am damned, and detested, within my own cruel, disordered mind
These sharp and rusty fragments do not dissipate in this ill begotten wind
That blows through the hollows beneath my cheeks, through stiff joints and swollen knuckles
Brushes the low curve of my spine producing tremors that embalm me like a thousand feral gnats
Lapping at my meringue flesh, pricking it with their tiny stiletto teeth, as if I am a succulent –
My plump flesh ripe and sweet
However, their hordes are merely demons smelling my earthy scent, a dead giveaway of my wretchedness
I am witch
I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath
I call the clouds, the wind, to roil
To chastise myself for my grievous errors, upside down and sideways, singular and plural –
Threefold when webs cling to corners, and ruse slithers up the walls, my minds eye blinded –
Unfolding a collateral morn…
Debris crunches beneath these funeral boots, antiquities phantoms smeared upon their withered soles
Briar and bruise, cut and burn mars skin with a map resembling a tortured playground –
Like the one long ago where my 5 year old self first met its shadow…
A circular teeter totter from which I fell and broke my arm in two places; A greenstick fracture
There was no teetering… nor tottering… no movement… only sitting
Barely the space of a few feet between ground, and girl
The beginning of wreaking mayhem on myself for my helplessness to exterminate abominations
How else could this occur?
Perhaps I bore marshmallow bones?
Or were they volcanic; Full of holes and feather light?
Some believe that there are accidents, but the rest of us know there aren’t
From the time that I could tie my shoelaces
My mind at war with itself
My heavy eyes observed the intricacies of the universe –
The pecking order of oblivious mannequins
There are few saviors, and none blessed me with their good deeds during those 2am night terrors
As, swept up in soft arms, we would creep into the brittle, cold night air…
When he, fulcrum to her lever
Ran amuck through the wormwood fields, leafy oils seeping through his skin, staining it green
Until his mind was gone and his demons breathed, inhaled her forlorn miseries –
Throwing them back at her in a cyclone of blood
Brutal, metal zig-zag teeth leaving bite marks on her tender faith
Droplets of bitter crimson climbing up the hem of her precious wedding gown
The only bit of good in the bad; She would not collapse, would not pass onto her offspring the feeling of forfeiture
But even with her clever, feline, agile tenaciousness
Her medicinal, crafty armamentarium of spotless, contemplative infinities, intuitive planes, and transcendental artistry
She could not separate the heart from the hurt, the child from the tarnish, the soul from the shame
I am a product of primitive gardens; Seeds that bloom threads of dark divination –
Harms that need not be human faults, though they be!
I screech and scream in red splattered so brutally across creamy walls that it settles; Into silence –
I am a ghost in Time magazine photographs
Bleeding and bled yet revived and fueled by fury; A porcelain pinata exploding with a parched bloodlust
Come Fall I feel its nearing –
That inky wash staining my skin and eyes
Its dark, dreary appendages, spider-leg fingers reaching for my spirit, clawing at my dreams
A childs memory mottled with guilt
Its skulking shadows magnified on the wall in the candles flame
I am a chromatic aberration, circles of confusion along the path of chronic calculations –
Energy exhausted, to determine sacred ground, where my eyes need not plead for, nor fear… love
Mugwort tea to bless my dreams, yet knowing that I can’t undo those parts of me that now travel through each lifetime
I can’t spell an answer when the question is irrelevant –
Whatever determines what remains, so shall it be
And I can scream red, can cut off these scars, dig deep and long, break these wicked bones rip my hair, my lashes
I can rage that I will not become the results of blights, and plagues, and ravages –

Of brutal things wrapped in pretty bows (vile atrocities should be thrown to hell, but even hell doesn’t want them)

I can fight the good fight, but as the long, grey shadows of fall slink over my face with their cold, wet tongues
I am all I am, and although I loathe certain things that have brought me here
I loathe the abandonment of myself even more

I could not save her from his thieving arms
I was a child with an angelic spirit whose wings were torn, ripped from their tender seams
Left on the floor in a crumpled heap, in their shattered bedroom –
Holes and glass, metal and wood, paper and pierced photographs; What vile dream is this?
My child is a monster
I invoke the clouds, the wind to roil at her strength
While my wicked eyes send heartbroken tears down my lonely, empty face

I am witch
I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath

Abberations

Of Obscured Origin

Those eyes, empty mirrors telling honest lies
Apparitions sucked out all their life –
Gnarled, wasted fingers played a lullaby, morose notes beckoning your soul
Too late… eyes sewn shut and withered wings, the angels start to rust –
Damned to perch on headstones of the living dead
You pry open all your wounds, mesmerized with how your veins bleed acid rain
Standing on sacred ground, you sacrifice what others beg to keep
Reach inside and rip your heart from its bone asylum; Harvester of the absurd –
The banshees and the demons laugh and flirt with wicked sighs. Make a joke of me
Twisted flames melt your metal cage while you hold the key –
As all the crows are falling from the sky
Littering the fields with their tiny bones, soft among the brittle leaves and thorny stems
I’ll make my way to your resting place. Sleep upon your dandelion-finial grave –
Dig into the musky dirt and push it to the side, so I can rest my sorrow and my body close to you
Deaths alluring seduction your primitive desire – loamy eyes pursue its providence
It is not for me to maim or desecrate, to dissuade your hyperbolic love affair with the cessation of being…

And time unfolds what’s true, like rivers carve the stones. Like moss climbs up the trees and flesh dissolves to bone
And pain reveals what’s real, like shadow swallows sun. Like damage erodes sweet and tears eulogize what’s gone
And it is not for me, to try to hold you here. To mutilate your aberrations –
To calm my deepest fears

There is no peace tonight, in tender dream or prayer. The ghosts sleep in our bed, between you and me
Where my love sanctifies, your forlorn love impales, provokes our demise, without lament or wail
Deep in your caramel eyes, dark with brooding ruin, you’ve already gone to murder the light
In this specters dance, the grass is dying beneath your feet, the trees are weeping to the mountains –
The stones turning to dust, and the crows, their carcasses rotting in lovely desolation, are so delicate in flux
Time does not heal all wounds, its sutures rupture, unravel and assault
The heart becomes a tomb, decimated with misshapen visions, shadows of false prophecies
No footprints in the doorway, the flowers left to weed, windows smeared with seasons storms –
Black feathers stuck in blood upon the shattered glass
And all you speak is pain, all you love is woe, all you do is murder
You left long ago
This ruin is mine to tend, its desolation deep, these rusty, empty hours lacerate my bones
I watch you walk into the reclusion of your pain
You drink your torment down, then retch it back again
My hands slide down your skin, to calm your fevered grief
But in your frenzied ills your madness screams against relief
The twisted messengers in your mind, shrieking all your pain, mocking, taunting, brutalizing
Jagged beaks pecking at your last article of faith; Cannibalizing
And no one understands you now — appreciates the way you burn
They set fire to your fire, goading your pathologies from grotesque into perverse
The damage in the air; Your disenchanted wounds culminate in desolation
Too long you’ve worn this skin; Too long lived as this wretched mutilation
Where Death murmurs like a wanton lover, with tender care made of shameless deceit and treason
To disfigure… to cheat you, steal you of yourself – take scalpel to your soul and reason

And time unfolds what’s true, like rivers carve the stones. Like moss climbs up the trees and flesh dissolves to bone
And pain reveals what’s real, like shadow swallows sun. Like damage erodes sweet and tears eulogize what’s gone
And it is not for me, to try to hold you here. To mutilate your aberrations –
To calm my deepest fears

Note: Funny story. In a hotel with a nice, clean, huge window. Woke up late at night, couldn’t sleep so took a few photos. In the morning I realized that “I ❤ U” showed in the photos. Looked at the window but no such message was anywhere.

Blue

Perforated Peephole Proposing Possibilities

You were in the midst of your demons, stumbling drunk on confusion and rage
I had taken on tragedy, tied it up and put it in a cage
The sea in your eyes was crashing
Battering, bruising and foul
I was swept up into that miserable pain; Cyclone
Wondering what I was going to do now
You were the web spinner of discontent, flailing lament and chaos so savage it devoured its own meaning
I was an inkblot out of proportion, a lonely distortion, and despair drenched in so much blue, it leaked into my shadow
We fed each other our mysteries, murdered simple solutions trying to fit the pieces
Your nails, staples and razor wire heart didn’t speak in my tongue
But modern love bores me with its fraying before fully flourishing
And I knew who you were beneath the webs that you’d spun –
Beneath the fallout from betrayal, from the most selfish, cruelest deeds
That left you a cut, bled, empty scarecrow lying facedown in the witchweed…
It took a relentless, thousand mile wilderness trek with magnifying glass schematics
To recall those first breathy exposures that we left mildewing in the attic –
Those lips scorching new paths by the moons creamy illumination
That cast out archival wounds and tiers of paraffin woe, melting once again
Fire dance, flames that fly, shooting through a ferris wheel sky
I thought that we could, but now the only question is… Why?
Now with nowhere to belong
No lasting impression, despite dragging my shadow to every sunlit wall
And so the suffering… the corn rots on the stalks, sucked dry of its juices by the baking sun
As am I, wasting away, parched and brittle from drinking an illusion all wrapped up in prettiness
Spitting dirt, my bones shallow, disintegrating, falling into themselves, weeping… dust…
My heart feasting on brittle duplicities
Meanings have no meaning but we pile them up, create teetering monstrosities
Sorrow and tragedy speak in obsidian hues
I’ve never seen beautiful until you
I’ve never known lonely could soak into my bones
Leave me writhing, begging and screaming to be left alone
I breathe but yet can’t catch my breath
I wonder, am I awake or am I dreaming yet?
We were a wildfire storm that chewed up a lilac-frosted sky
And I’ll never regret what others will never understand
Your name a wistful memoir on my lips –
On the brink, like an hourglass sucking down sand
When I recall how we decapitated muse and utopia
Reckless and colliding like a magnitude 13
We notched fouls and madness, crashed and burned
Set flame to the laudanum after we doused it with gasoline
Thus this catastrophe that I have become –
I dream hopeless gasps instead of tender sighs
Wandering through a landscape of charred, lonely ruins

Blue swallowing love
Begging, what, my dear heart, were we thinking of?