Witches’ Mark

I sing of my loves, for I am tired of myself

and my social, romantic, sexual destitution

within this impossible, unpromising dune. 

You are sweet Lyras betwixt Orpheus’s steady hands,

but you need no Muse to sing all your possibilities. 

They never had good taste anyway,

and your words already trampled like 

a freight train hauled by a parade of rogue elephants.

Words that violated your dreams, screeching 

Like the sick serenade that plagued Jeanne in ‘31.

But no priest told you, no poet holds you. 

Like an Istanbul cat, you occupy everywhere for me,

my darling Artemis in heels, my fearless Rita in war paint.

But I - I am a guppy in a nest of sirens,

waiting for my hair to kindle, 

my voice to volley, my misandry to shockwave.

Our aesthetic woos “speakeasy,” but our

voices cannot be heard over neurological tommy guns.

Whatever is the point of being pretty like Gaia 

if we’re going to be friendless like Hades? 

Perhaps if we were scarred like common Fagin boys, 

then we would expect more loyalty than lust. 

Apart, we are enriched, yet perfectly exposed, 

like a Louisianian hamlet trapped in a hurricane.

But together, we are colossal, infinite, 

like die Nachthexen terrorizing the haters,

as we sound our calamitous war-cry: 

“Hear ye cats, hear ye swine, 

hear ye sailors, hear ye cunts - 

We enchanters are too feral for your world, 

we are too wise for your humanity. 

Question our love, question our loyalty, 

our lips, our tits, our minds, our wombs, 

or our chromosomes - 

and the only revolution you will find, 

is axis to your own, personal ground zero. 

We will sound our barbaric yawps over the

mountaintops of the world and

we will not be silenced.”