crying a song

Scorpio Venus, Scorpio Jupiter, Scorpio Rising, Gemini Moon.

Every priestess tells me I am destined for death, transformation.

How can anyone enjoy their life when there is so much grief, to be juiced from the body.

Freakish dreams which carry their vibration into the present and make me feel strange inside myself.

My great grandmother’s yellow portmanteau, which sits at the back of the closet, has a disconnected feeling to it.

But the object is too unique and elegant-looking to get rid of, and too the still puddle of energy it holds.

I worship the great god Pan (I panic)
I play the flute like a wild, angry devil.

My baby is afraid of me and doesn’t get it,
thinks I am am another emotional lunatic.

But I am more emotionally stable than he has ever been:
He is a haunted house,
and all he has to do is salt the corners
And let the energy shrivel into death,

Like slug powder,
and that goes perfect with most protection spells

But has to be eaten.

I’m full of jealousy, I’m full of loneliness.

The covens invented ritual
And sacrament.
And they weren’t evil or greedy unless it was natural.

These days men die a romantic sailor’s death,
and drown in the endless blue ocean of memory.

The most beautiful performance art is done by animals and pagans in their privacy:

Pay me and you can watch me remove the bits of glass
one by one
and seal the slits with red wax.

Dream girls don’t spill their secrets for free …

Long hair, long dress.
crying a song …