wisecracking cunts (occulture)

our regular date comes around,
3 hours every 3 years

i had missed your singing
to digest life’s casual backhand blow
but today we stroll the market holding hands,

“Look at that. We did land back in Europe”
as if yesterday,
backpacks still feisty as fresh horses
on these greater motherland soils
we’re slowly trickling into

it’s that old scene again,
the witches sit on benches
under rain stars and fire
and discuss devotion
from men who are children,
kids rise in great conjunctions on the horizon
and the chop-wood tending, tending to our temples.

in this cauldron i learned
the parched taste of the ivory tower,
scholars reading papers 
in a room brimming with power - 
untapped, unharnessed,
sitting silent on hard stools
till body humor and music come twinkling back in,
gets us humming 
drags out a fat chair for the heart to lounge in,
moistens the air with some sweetness and spice

a great gilded cunt proclaims wisecracks and benedictions,
women smoke mugwort and pass around flying ointment
a man puts the Child in the centre of money. 

a mind palace of magic
is a curious place
but plenty of common-sense brew
got passed around the back rows

“if you want them to remember -
tell them a story” 

and i do, i will 
carry with me
the key-fiddle-player who played till flesh fell
from the whirling dancers
who danced on still -

 it always does this, 
he says
“this song is an army dying in the snow”
and throws a fistful of precious in the air,
conjures the scent of ice turning pink with blood under shivering pines,
mouth-to-mouth treasure of
this scar in our land’s tissue
the star that bloomed there in mourning black
and dances on the heartstrings
all the way to this room 
leaps in tongues of flame from our clapping hands,

the music plays and their bones whirl around us

familiar faces flicker there
and this is the point really,
to behold the questing fire of 
others who remember
investigate
feed with prayer
the old and new ways between worlds,
sail their ships of words and plants 
on the singing waters of the oldest of loves,
spirit and matter,
the spiral of time
erotically wrapped around tentacular space

i let the deep silence of their atoms sigh next to mine
and the work
we came here for

is already done.

thank you @seed_sistas, martin ciesielski,@kreatress_music, @growlerspeaks and @oliverstyr for your seriously kick-ass gifts at the conference. I was very moved by what you brought into the room.