Shouts and shadows
echo in the deep,
I hear the tremblings
from the far side
of the smoky mushroom.
Christ wanted a tarot reading
and so we sat on the floor and
I drew cards amidst the cacophony
of identities that I coughed through
whilst Hierophant and Change
whisper in tongues with
the Aeon playing Vivaldi on the violin in Venice.
It may have been centuries ago,
but I still remember
that smell of spices
and WitchDoctor masks in the air.
I'll set the metronome,
ever stirring up the rogue supernatural,
and weep for the rising death toll.
You spend your nights resting
on her grave thus to remember
a once brilliant illusionist for the madness,
the surge of artistry that pumps
through our throats,
taste of silicone and sage.
I purge you of that dank festering loneliness,
opening up kundalini magic,
sorcery of it's own time,
centuries of vampire hunters
and blacksmith cannibals
eating out your heartstrings
and laughing in the midst of Noah's flood.
Fine. You win.
I cave in to the creator,
rook moves three spaces forward,
though he may be in some gothic frenzy,
black robes cutting off circulation of blood
and the electric pulse quickens-
I begged you not to,
but you did anyway
and thus welled up within me
a wrath thirst of the vampire variety,
taunting me to give till I am dry,
always not telling you something,
with a faint glisten in my eye.