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SUPERNATURAL
In order to
stay in the good graces
of God you go
to incredible lengths
of
servitude and inconvenience
even transporting
the Sunday school
brats in
that dilapidated station wagon
your
atheistic step father left you in his will
as post-mortem
revenge, as if knowing what
sort of missionary
use you’d put it to,
six little
heathens practicing
a version
of human sacrifice in the back seat.
Now if this
doesn’t get you a first class ticket
to heaven, there’s
nothing left to do but pray
while
cicadas, inspired from On High, cackle in the wind.
If there
was such a thing as ghosts they’d play poker on the roof,
smoke our
stash, tap into our booze supply, grind
chips and
dip into the carpet. One of them of course
would have to
be addicted to snuff, leave empty coke cans
everywhere
full of brown spit. He would be the one who
left the
blue-grass red-neck records out of their sleeves
and all
over the floor. Ghosts don’t haunt
so much as plague. And what’s
worse: not
even God can kill them: they’re already dead.
Witches
still exist. Today you can see them sashaying
atop perilous
designer heels, not brooms, long clean hair shining
on the
pallid beaches of Maui and Mykonos
and not only
do the waves gasp and froth, the wind breathe
in fits and
starts. Trust me, bro, not only the waves or the wind.
But the
only man who has their ear whispers
wicked
things therein, the right spells, a promise of tickets
as he
gently squeezes your nipples, darling,
to the coolest
award shows in town( he looks a little
like Jack
Nicholson, circa The Witches of Eastwick,
the same
shit-eating grin, the dark glasses), which is all we’re interested in.
That, and
how high our shoes can get, in every shade of
witchy
pastel, every ice-creamy warlocky hue. The world looks on, spellbound.
Mysterons by Portishead
