Laden with hungry fingers and a thirst for Jim Beam, you skulk through murky nightclubs looking for a dimly lit blonde to awaken in the middle of the night. You eat up the thrill of drunken sex and fuck in hotel rooms paid for in cash, twisting beneath sheets stained with indiscretion.
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.
Seventeen months and six days ago, with practice that could only be attached to a pair of nitrile gloves, they pulled apart generations of stratified tissue, classified the human from the mammal and presented the results on a stainless steel tray.