8 Threats I’ve Made With a Witch

(NB. Push my buttons).

Let me tell you of Baba Yaga,
School children, students,
Let me unhinge your jaws
Like puppets
With words as loathsome as caramel
And teardrops as tasteful as meat.

I.

Let me tell you of the Witch,
And her fingers, curled and crunched
Like leaves,
And her lips, two brown lolly sticks,
Creeping into your bed,
And blushing at the magic between your legs.

II.

Imagine your girlfriend, or boyfriend,
(This depends on who you are)
Sprawled on the edge of a cliff,
Like a cracked egg.
And there, he/she makes love to the view,
And you wish it were you.
Tell yourself this,
How do you feel when you comb over your jealousy,
Imagine him, or her, with me.

III.

Imagine your legs,
Two liquorice sticks on a bed,
That I could snap and bend with a click,
And you’d yell so hard
You’d knock the bed into pregnancy.

IV.

Your reputation is ash.
And I want to take your nose and stitch it backwards
So you can’t smell your victories anymore.
I want to poison your spoiled lives.
Take Daddy’s money,
And stuff it in your mouth.
Then fuck him.
Take your dreams,
And layer them with Mother,
Wine and dine on her breasts for a table.

V.

Take the Witch’s breath,
And perfume yourself with the beady sweat of a thousand tongues,
Belonging to a thousand men,
Reach deep into your gut,
And pull out all the dread, the worms,
Give them names,
Name one after yourself,
Fizz into labour with your army of children
Like a spider,
Let it stick you with your silk, drink your sister’s vomit like milk,

VI.

Go look in the mirror.
Look at yourself.
See your ugly common face.
Read this. Note it.
Your beady eyes, radiate £ signs,
And there’s the Devil whispering,
“Send your naked and baked cockroach of a body
Over Tinder,
You cheap, wasted fruit”.

VII.

You’re dribbling your wishes like garbage juice.
Let me tell you of the Witch,
Who stitched herself into your dreams,
Who blew these images of terrible things
Like an icicle,
Straight through the tiniest holes
Into your dignity
Let me tell you of Baba Yaga,
Who hides in the woods,

VIII.

Let me tell you of things you couldn’t understand,
How your pie crust face lies in the sand,
And how I want to bury you, face down,
So you won’t see the sky again.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s