The Witch of Endor

A worried king came to me, lord knows why
to measure his luck against the Philistines.
Strange how an eldritch technique can change
from heresy to dogma for reasons of state –
anyway, for all my murdered sisters I gave
him just enough doubt to put off his aim –
he’ll lay down his sword from anxiety, then
lie down and slide along it, slowly, to rest.
I slaughtered a calf to give precursive thanks
and fed him libation to his own pierced flank.

When the gods ascend from out the earth,
justice sees tyrants come off the worse.

V.19

“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