PCOS – PESSIMIST CONJURING OSTRACISED SORCERESSES

History lessons on the good, the bad and the wicked

Did you know no witch can birth a witch

It’s why they’re deeply stricken

Probably,

Who knows the crux of somebodies bad luck to have a mind delivered from the rind of damned relics and juju hinds

What fabric are we granted in our genesis?

May it be the cloth of the Saint or the jealous menaces who realise that most ladders are the spines of others

And there’s nothing more eager than a barren mother

Self critique? more like life’s general mystique

What would my life be if I were the flower and the tree, not the idle eye

Synthesising and romantic wising

Each and every summer sky and

Every sad song clinging to the sound of my absent ache

Like a lovers lustful residue or an inherited bloody mistake

How much of life is there to admire

When the boom and bust is as newly ancient as ‘woman on pyre’ – I say natures umpire

Witches who conjure myths but are in themselves myth

A guitar is some wood and string before strummed hence the ‘rift’

Human body splayed

Pain played again…and again

Dragons drawn to be slain

By the man

And his divine hand

Why in his morose toast

Victory call and the hand of the beast decorates hall

The monster wasn’t man after all

But man is monster and always rules

They have multiple arsenals of hidden atomic jewels

Shoot up schools

And trick all the general fools into

Believing beauty is only power to the cruel

Which isn’t true at all

The retro lense is considered a cleanse of

The HUMAN nature of the now

Picking the last batch of daisies on the fields on the playground

Watching your friends birth fleshy lumps that came from supersonic baby bumps

This is real life not a stunt

Doubling up equals witch hunt

On the woman with the “KIDS”

Hansel and Gretel still kick at this

But I wonder what myth this is

The Lochness monster

Bigfoot

Big belly

Ex man is jelly

Tummy shaped like telly

Rhymes and rituals are my novice, my Machiavelli

But don’t dry my intentions with black ash as the air will become quite smelly

That’s what does it…

The truthful smell of a thing

The smell of deceit is protected by the spell of a conjured wedding ring

The smell of childhood trauma extinguished by choirs who all sing

And laws that expel clear thoughts like water running down a sinnnnnnk

Think,

When rings are lost in the plumbing

And choirs are sullen, just humming

Why then do we think of the crucified

When the smell is always live

And stunning

A witch can travel through space and change face but is somehow only found in one mystical place

The darkest wood of them all

Ironic considering that that bitch is flammable?!

It’s just like being wrapped up in large debts that have you hanging from your walls – necks – death – but live – hex – ?

It’s just like believing fire can cure my evils

Cos like money, we witches print more and curse-doors and have stores of wonderful wicked things, like hypnotised children singing with blackened wings and weddings rings

And guilt trips that send you off of cliffs

And sad nostalgic guitar rifts

Lusty potions to keep you stiff

Let’s not be children and become consumed in a green inferno

From which copper sulphate goes boom in the sky

4th of July

Christmas

Valen-whines-day

Halloween Theme Boozer

New Years Drugs Cruiser

Any cunts birthday Balooser

….

Election

Natural selection

Shameful erection

Sorry, pardon my inspection

Data selling

CCTV

DO RE MI

Marry me

Magazine

Super tea

Gluten free

Animal cruelty

Saving scheme

Skinny jeans

Class mobility

You should have just burned me

Before I managed to grab my broom

And sweep your dirty thoughts delicately from the imagined room

You should have tied me down

Like the bands that will own your soul from now

Right above hell to keep your

blood hot

and your fruitful vessels round

But they won’t pop

They won’t boom or bust – foul

I am setting you free from the wicked root of your suffering now

Having any root at all is far from cool

And killing me is just like trying to kill us all

A Buddhist might remind you to be nice

A politician will tell you things are alright

Just let me operate in the dark of midnight

For then like you I might see incoming fires that are only seen without light – my dead sisters pyres

I have your instructions on my mouth and your DNA in my cauldron

Watch me manipulate your souls while you continue to scold them

My sister with sore blister

Incapable of a ‘mister’

Our minds of unnatural twist

A land is never without its cysts.

R.M.C

Art by WANGECHI MUTU

Ovarian Cysts

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