May 2016 - Comments Off

Kevin Hughes

Piss Witch

A devil stands on my shoulder & I never want to shake her off no matter how hard she digs her claws into her perch, twists her hoof, kneads her paw.  She makes me wince into smiles & cackle at the spite seeped below the surface. When my mouth sandpapers blood, she spits belladonna blackened by bats spattered on my breath.  She flaps her wings & flicks her tail, envenoms every love song so what was sweet bitters—stale mugwort boiled in pewter.  When I hunger for affection, she sinks our teeth into fresh flesh ripped to shreds in our wake.  Where some leave hickeys, we leave scars—bloodstained moons swollen at dawn.  Her sonar pricks at jinxes & rebounds with hexes of her own design—jet-green flashes—I imbibe her elixir, puff out embers from my lungs.  At the demon’s hour we emerge with blades laced with melted mercury—tattoo ink for all who dare.  When I awake from slumbering she hovers, sharpens her nails with her fangs, licks her lips—crimson bluish wine; my piss witch readies for her next embrace.

 

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