THE DEVIL'S ****
He straps her
to the table
before him
(a sacrifice on an altar)
of the Arrogance
of his Ignorance.
Turns to the tools
of his trade
neatly & almost
piously arranged
on the table
behind him
still stained
with the chicken’s blood
from this morning’s
preparation
bubbling in the ***
... forgotten now.
He is a master
Pricker
as they call him
about here
half in awe & fear
of the Witchfinder General
and all his kind.
He is angry
at her resistance
tears off
the ragged burlap shift
that covers her
shaves her
from head to pudenda
examines
her
from top
to toe
with the aid of
a giant magnifying glass
for any blemish
or birth mark
(an oddly shaped wart)
that will betray her
in all its innocence
pricking her both
with the long needle
and the short
and ahhh...
the birthmark
refuses to bleed.
He smiles
at such
an obvious sign.
Her denials
screaming uselessly
against the locked
door of his mind.
but now his fingers
probe
sensitively searching
for the Devil’s ******
concealed
within her
to nourish
to suckle
her
toad familiar.
And yes how proud he feels
to discover
hidden within her
privy
shaft
obscured by her
female *****
but not to the
empirical mechanics
of his fingers
probing...probing
as plain as the sun
that goes around
this Godly Earth
...the Devil’s ****
And so, by this
fleshly
mark of
being
Woman
she is
condemned to be
witch.
And so it is
so
in these
“the burning years.”
I cry for her
as I reclaim her
from History
(so many thousands
of her)
hold them
all
(in their holy terror)
all such suffering
beings
in my arms
in the dawn
of this new
morning
keening
for them
stroking their hair
(closing their eyes)
as tenderly
as if
they were my child.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
THE DEVIL'S ****
He straps her
to the table
before him
(a sacrifice on an altar)
of the Arrogance
of his Ignorance.
Turns to the tools
of his trade
neatly & almost
piously arranged
on the table
behind him
still stained
with the chicken’s blood
from this morning’s
preparation
bubbling in the ***
... forgotten now.
He is a master
Pricker
as they call him
about here
half in awe & fear
of the Witchfinder General
and all his kind.
He is angry
at her resistance
tears off
the ragged burlap shift
that covers her
shaves her
from head to pudenda
examines
her
from top
to toe
with the aid of
a giant magnifying glass
for any blemish
or birth mark
(an oddly shaped wart)
that will betray her
in all its innocence
pricking her both
with the long needle
and the short
and ahhh...
the birthmark
refuses to bleed.
He smiles
at such
an obvious sign.
Her denials
screaming uselessly
against the locked
door of his mind.
but now his fingers
probe
sensitively searching
for the Devil’s ******
concealed
within her
to nourish
to suckle
her
toad familiar.
And yes how proud he feels
to discover
hidden within her
privy
shaft
obscured by her
female *****
but not to the
empirical mechanics
of his fingers
probing...probing
as plain as the sun
that goes around
this Godly Earth
...the Devil’s ****
And so, by this
fleshly
mark of
being
Woman
she is
condemned to be
witch.
And so it is
so
in these
“the burning years.”
I cry for her
as I reclaim her
from History
(so many thousands
of her)
hold them
all
(in their holy terror)
all such suffering
beings
in my arms
in the dawn
of this new
morning
keening
for them
stroking their hair
(closing their eyes)
as tenderly
as if
they were my child.
