I Water My Garden with Thanks to Witches
And the ennui of innocence –
At some point they become insufferable.
I thought of summing it up in a boo hoo memoir
Like, -Diary of a Swatted Fly-
Yeah, my good news awakening gifted to other
Ever after at a loss assholes.
I tell ya, that Catholic soot, ain’t no amount of sin
That can scrub it off.
Into the confessional.
The raspy voice,
Issuing from the other side of the grille,
I can still hear it clearly.
‘And now I want you to say one Our Father,
one Hail Mary, and one Glory Be,
And is the tempo supposed to make it any
Fuckin’ holier, Father?
Me, any fuckin’ sorrier?
By tomorrow my soul’ll be dripping wet with the
Same sorta transgressions.
And I treasure that wetness, the water right outta Jezebel’s
Cooze, cuz it washes off the dust of your reset;
Your ‘state a grace,’ which only cakes up under my
No wonder I gotta bad habit of scratching others.
Let my prey thus be anointed!
It’s easy, when ya cease to be haunted by a god so
Breathless running down the centuries he can’t answer
You in prayer.
The image of matted hair crowning a rusting antique which,
If it could speak, might sound like a cross between Dustin
Hoffman and Russell Crowe- it don’t bother me like before.
Cuz I left my innocence with a litany of witches,
Left it drowning in their blood.
Hey! Your words, my Lord:
‘Thou shalt not suffer…’
I love my modus of twenty-two exits.
The sharp tip goes in, then comes out.
Out! Out of time, out of love, out of rust and
Dust and suffering and penance and…Flies!
From the witches’ wounds grow the trees of
My new Eden.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have made a garden where
neither Lord nor larvae can flourish.’
Already I’m bored again.