“A witch is more lovely than thought in the mountain rain”
My language machine has rusted
elements and black mould. Shut up
the screen and have no more toxic
doses, ignore the buzzing flies
on various empty ice creams.
I can smell mildew soaking my
semantic pillows. I hear her
pen scratching for miles of heathland.
I pull the ripcord over and
over but nothing’s happening
then everything suddenly stops.
I’m too late and no longer care
for the strange way I seem to friends.
Many hundreds of pupate words
have burst from my fingers in her
gaze and honour upon my throat.
The rain which appears throughout life
and reappears like a candle
flutters, appears and she is there
standing with her fellow witches
in a graveyard. I love her style
of fighting. She stands there and wins
against the wind, is motionless.
her presence maketh my thoughts die