Olde Punk weaves a wicked spell
gasping, gaping. Metastasis. It glows in the corner as a fire fly’s mouth. Deep molasses of a moonless Southern night. It has a need of its own. There is a name on the door but no one knows who it belongs to anymore. That seed was scattered and the crop failed. Erasure, in the gloaming. The craft of wetwork still decorates some of the old pine floor. l’satan lo. Obstruction, judgement. The weather vane is rusted in a westerly position. Adverse to the meaning, this pain is still subjective. There was never a time in this place where the low dogs didn’t whine. There was never a place in this time that felt so wrong.
Perhaps the wrongness was mine. They used to burn the witches in the square. Malleus Maleficarum. It happened just before the end. These things often do at All Hallow’s, the reaping, Samhain. Desperation, fear…
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