SOC Writing _ 6.2.21

Witches Brew

Bubble, boil, sun, toil, bone, stick, pick mick’s dick – this along with all the other nervous bits go into the pot and stir – stir, stirred till the smell is overwhelming – this medicine doled out in huge bowl is the envelope to your hustled soul – tie me in this – in that rope burn tree turns and I spin looking up at the stars on a dirty earthen mattress. I begat this far from home – actually down in the hay I found my early witch – wanting, wanting – full of desire and ardour – was my practice making magic with myself, alone by myself – sometimes high other times low – long walks by the black creek – sensuous immersion in the element and my aloneness absolutely delicious. Black cats a normal feature of the farm scape – death always – the smell of rotting flesh amongst the sandstone, time ages crustaceans pressed into rock – Noah’s flood remnants I was told – but something in me knew it was old – much older than they said. Much sadder and badder than the Jesus stories – fights and wars and genocide were the old holy scriptures – I come from a lineage of witches – all outcast – but profound wisdom from the ditches – those places outside palaces - it was the women – the men similar - locust eating John – but all men – the she witch was to love – all her trinkets – all her charms - now I’m ever drawn to the occult symbol – want to touch the crystal born in a rabbits rib – the cast metal symbol of a portal to begin worlds - this under ground presence is making its way up through the tables into my water – is seeping into fissures of my hear – dark, mysterious and glorious – I have only a taste for the dark and the rest is up to her – my muse listens for the right time – for the perfect moon where my claws clack and my haired feet bear my teeth – a snarl and bite – seeing blood drip into the moonlight – and yet not ever a fright.