This is a poem dedicated to my witch girlfriend, who has been teaching me about witchcraft, history, and art ever since we met. It is a simplistic tale in commemoration of beautiful, cunning witches that disguise themselves as something–someone–more… and so these words can be imagined as the secret, invisible text across the gloss of a tarot card.
the lone raven in the warm forest turns into a bedside angel //with demon wings. & //this is nocturne academia //sheet music draped in dust & //little//lithe sparrow bones. someone hooks her wisteria-vine limbs //over my shoulders //whispers something about noxious selves & //falling stars. god, ye are terrible. //we //these veiled fawns so sweet & //cruel. fogged & misted //godly antlers sprouting from where we had bloodletted to coat pinky //fingers in post-sacrificial abel //we //the raw-mouthed cains //chests heaving & //tight white blouses //THIS is cruel//crude, abels melding with obsidian sadness //making promises with girls who speak //in ancient greek //EUASTEROS //sapphic blood pacts & //we try to bring sappho & aphrodite back to life to guide us //but we cannot.
Appreciate your marks of age Light a candle for every new blemish mark or scar Like a ring on a tree trunk it is a sign of defiance shown on your glorious trunk
Celebrate each mistake you make by wearing your favourite colour head to toe for the entire day Know that you won’t do it again, or if you do you will be reassured that you won’t shatter next time you will still be you
You are well aware of how to procure an accurate prophecy. You’ve been doing it for years and this year is no different.
You cycle into outer space. It is a warm June night in England and a cold, unnamed never-time everywhere else in the universe. When you find the prophecy, it has been circling a distant sun for a millennia. It looks like gold and feels warm, the temperature of skin. You tuck it under your tongue and it tastes like raw egg yolk.
if you sense pernicious stirrings in your midst walk backwards until you arrive at a precipice overhanging the ocean jump up three times turning one hundred eighty degrees in the air so your left foot lands in your right foots print and vice versa vice versa vice versa then whisper your name thrice backwards while inhaling
When the wind blows fiercely, I crouch down low. The single cow in a field is a bad omen for everyone. A red-beaked bird is called a chough. Red-beaked birds are called oystercatchers. The toadstool has no name and is in the wrong season. There are seals on the beach and in the water.
You must walk where the earth is worn away. The blossom is pink and is in the wrong season. White birds with black-tipped wings are called gannets. He walks at the edge and you beg him. White birds with black-tipped wings never touch the earth. Some people don’t care what they are called. When a new calf watches you, your heart beats faster. When the wind blows hard you lie on the ground. When he walks at the edge you scream into the wind. A voice sounds like nobody’s voice. The telephone call is nobody you know.
“There are Some Things Only The Moon has Seen” is a hex to reverse the moon landing, which celebrates it’s 50th anniversary next month in July. In a realty where so much of the world’s resources have been wasted on a futile, militarized, and detestable race to colonize outer space, we believe those resources should have been used to further things like human rights causes and focusing on averting the climate disaster that our planet is heading into.