Beyond Rappaccini

I told you I was the witch.
I told you I was the wolf.

I cannot dumb it down any more for you.
Society has already made you~
an ignorant cow, stupidly chewing
the cud of media bullshit
in the putrid glow of your television screen.
(Your kind makes me want to scream.)

I would try to elucidate you,
but I have given up the habit of banging my head against society’s walls.

Instead…

I shall eat with you honey collected from the finest foxgloves and mandragora,
and grown in the garden you seek to Roundup and destroy.
My words always sweet to your kind, but dripping poison
to undermine you.

I shall perfume the air with salvia, wormwood, and myrrh.
My eyes watchful, waiting for you
to dip a drowsy nod & then I shall haunt your dreams
and turn your world inside out.

I shall feel the moist soil on my hands as I dig,
continuing to plant ivy to climb your walls and pull them down.
I will tend the slender willow, smiling when her roots crack open your controlled pipelines
and release the wild waters across your barren landscape.

I shall continue to anoint my skin with hemlock,
belladonna, henbane, and wild rose;
With my touch alone, I shall send you to the wild mountain to dance with the devil
and pull civilization from your shrieking soul.

I am the witch.
I am the wolf.

If you continue to seek my company
I shall, like Beatrice, kill you
so that you are reborn,
fit to keep me company.

Forest for the Trees

“I don’t understand you.”

You might if you noticed.

“I don’t know why you (insert everything but the one thing you like here).”

I know you don’t, hide-bound in
your orthodoxy,
your dogma,
your conservatism,
your fear.

You see only one side of the umbrella of me turning a blind gaze upon me when I twirl~

dancing in the rain.

You see only my back – or worse,
only the footprints I leave when I wander through the unmapped forest~

There’s wolves there… and witches.
Which scares you the most?
You cannot grasp that I am both.

You want me to be just one thing.
You want me to be your version of me,
your vision of me sacrosanct in your imagining,
your security, your comfort, intact.

But,
you cannot force me to answer to one name,
one label,
for your convenience or safety, coward.

I am not a single flower, mother-fucker,
I’m the whole damn Garden.

Good Friday with the Saints of Heresy & the Sages of Blasphemy

I have an interesting relationship with Christianity~ and to be fair, it started before I was born. My mother was born into a mixed marriage. Her father was (Irish) Catholic and her mother was (Hungarian) Methodist. My father’s family was the opposite: (Irish) Catholic mother and (Hungarian) Methodist father. Needless to say, family get-togethers were entertaining.

For myself, from a young age, I noticed that the parishioners (of either religious flavour) were as sweet as could be to your face on Sunday, but wouldn’t piss up your arse on Monday if your kidneys were on fire. This always struck me as wrong — and I came to the conclusion that I was probably the only person in the congregation(s) actually listening to the words in red when they were read to the people.

I also was always drawn to the inherent esoteric mysticism within Gnostic Christianity — which was/is a big ‘no-no’ in the dogmatic structure of the church(es). Needless to say, I gave absolutely no fucks and continued my own spiritual explorations without the added benefit of the benedictions of either sect.

So here I am, sat at my table, eating baked haddock (seasoned with lemon grass, garlic, and a hint of red pepper) thinking about my mom and watching the sun set over a verdant line of trees that have ‘miraculously’ regreened after winter’s embrace.

I am not, as my children reminded me when we went shopping for fish, a good Christian, but I am a decent mystic. May the Mysteries reveal themselves to you this weekend, and may the blessings of Spring find you in good health.