Witch Poetry. Death’s Piano: A cuntish little tune.

Death’s Piano: A cuntish little tune.

Death lives in this house.
Death lives in every house.

She is beautiful, magical and dances with tiny toes on large pianos. She is busy in her grace.
Her turn pauses when the critics speak, their nasty little noses and nasty little mouths resurrecting the witch trials and the artist cullings all over again. Their scythes raises against Gaia.

Death’s tune changes… Silly little children, this is not how that song goes.

Death plays while I drink and sing for you. (Death only drinks whiskey, by the way.)

You tell us we are not witches and not artists. You tell us we can’t do this, or that. Whispered words behind whispered intentions, rope after rope, binding after binding, to keep little girls souls at bay. Where did your rules come from? Did they ever grow? Did you think you could catch a stallion and keep it down? That is not how fate works. Rhiannon dashes through the stars in defiance of your words, blind little would-be-magick-killers. Earth-Killers. You never had a hope.

I am witch.

I am art.

They are witch.

They are art.

Your words of restriction scratch barbarous and blasphemous lines across the sky and lash your own soul place. Stagnant little feet trapped on stagnant little ground. How does that holy high feel now? Did you forget peaks are cold, isolated and

S H A R P.

Cut your binds you would-be naysayers. The worst that can happen? The absolute worst is freedom for you and your sisters.

But we, we the wicked, we the unrepentant, we the wild, we the wounded unbroken, we of the joyous shadows and sap-hearts run free. Forever moving. Forever dancing. Forever beyond your reach.

Our wings stretch and slice the night as we sit astride our besoms, cackling glee bubbling up from the cauldrons of our bellies.

There is no room for your fear here.

Here is Earth, our heritage, the heartbeat in out sacred, the sacred in our heartbeat.

Words have the power to cage galaxies, but not when spilled from a void of lack.

Do you feel the ache? Do you hear the call?

Our Grandmother’s live down here, in the dirt, the duff, the fire-hot caves of soil and herbs, cooking the chaos healing. The sage, the smoke, the bone-mushroom scents rise up and cloud your dreams. Their lava passes by your bed and heats your toes at night, and still you won’t hear their stories?

You, woman, witch, wild thing, are their story. Don’t let jealous and fearful words of lack spat from petty mouths tie you down to a lie and leave you living a life of half truths.

If magick calls, and you feel the stars tug at your hair… go to them. Nay! Run, fly, race to them. Don’t tether yourself to anything ordinary. Run, girl, run.

Morrigan patrols the skies with her black diamond eyes. Her prey is petty words that fling careless crippling wounds to the wind. She will snap their arrows in her beak. Crush. Devour. Laugh. Start again. You are protected girl. This is the only word you need remember for now. Your name is protected so spoke the Goddess Mouth.

Grandmother song, the Goddess song drifts through the trees with a rush of laughter. Our grandmothers’ fires still burn in caves long abandoned but never empty.

Only waiting.

Magick is always waiting to become; building up sweet joy and shadows in your bones.

Higher and higher until our little straw beds and twig besoms are lifetimes too small for us. As you explore the world from the delicious Saturn-Heights, bareful your feet don’t crush the villages. Be careful your hair doesn’t snag on stars. Or, perhaps be careful it does.

Careful is so dreadfully boring.

Under the watchful raven’s eye we live.
Under the guiding snake’s maw we die.
And here, in the in-between, the wolf swallows our souls and escapes all things that tell us we can’t.
We walk free of stone tombs to claim our power.
No one. Not you, or you, or you. No one for their gold, no one for their status, no one for their ego has any right to deny you
your right
to be
witch.
to be
art.
Potential sits raw and ripe in all our breasts, beating hopeful with every ecstatic thump of our wonderfully dark hearts.
Hear the rivers call.
Hear the winds rumble.
A storm is coming to remind all those children who got lost in the fray of time, that play time is far from over.
Imagining has just begun.
The monsters under your bed are real, and they will gobble up your oppressors.
Say yes to you and watch the walls melt away. The sun has a lot to tell you, little one.
The architecture for remembering what and who you are live’s in you, in your blood, your bones, your cunt, your busy little synapses smacking bright in the dull of the everyday swarm.
Maybe the knowing will spring between your mushroom hands.
Maybe the knowing will spring curl around your hare ears.
Maybe the knowing will spring between your fat ruby thighs.
Maybe the knowing will spring light up your dream-eye
Maybe the knowing will spring your paws of fox.
Maybe the knowing will spring from your lavender lips.
And as you shift your shape back into human form by the light of mother-bone-moon, your remembering will come with you.
Remembering that you are artist. Remembering that you are witch. Remembering that no one can take that from you.
It is a truth beyond truths that words have power like nothing else. Grandmother Spider weaves light and meaning and love through each syllable that spills past your star-blood lips.
The word with the greatest power is:
No.
Draw a line and leave your would-be soul-guards behind. Let them imprison themselves with their false words. Let them lock themselves down with fear.
Their denial of who you are has nothing to do with you.
Now, girl, woman, crone… run, run far and wild and wayward.
Get mud up your legs, get blood down your thighs, smear ash across your breasts, and spear your hair-crown with feathers and bones and fuck like crazy into the night.
Hunt all those forbidden, freakish, mischievous things of morbid delight.
Get lost in the wild and I promise you, you’ll be exactly where you’re meant to be:
Feral and burning.
Let those who burned for you,
see you light up your wild now.
Let them be proud,
as proud as you are of your freak.

And when you are done running, come find me, up on these dark moors. The hearth will be burning, the tea will be hot, the music fucking thumping and the honey cakes ready to warm and fill your belly anew.

And hear me whisper: You’ve fucking got this, bitch, before Death bashes her piano again.

Dedicated to everyone.

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