Curse Tablet

Pray permit me, an alchemist for our times-

a weak, meek, most disturbed and wicked woman

to perform in a virtuosic sequence the transmutation of myself to a greater perfection.

The time has come to unyoke my shadow self, with whom after a lifetime of sundry abominations,

 I find myself at a dissociative fork. That’s why I cook these elixers and work these invocations.

That self- a shape, a pall, a shadow made substance,

A lump bred up in darkness remains at variance, at hard boundary with all things decent and lovely in me.

Following her mistress in moving like a ghost, this poor imitation says to me her host,

“If you know not me, you know nobody.”

I stand accused by that covetous stunted pygmy.

“When you put words in my mouth, little slips of paper come out.”

Into a casket of reasonable bigness, restored from 5 fragments, now badly faded,

I ruthlessly cast- rolled, folded and pierced with nails, a stream of violent but extremely learned abuse.

Bazagra! Bescu! And Barabescu! Human language is not appropriate for addressing the gods!

May you uncouple from me immediately she who is so dreadful, paranoid, corrupt.

(Yeah, she corrupts me!) And the gods say,

“It is our pleasure to destroy this wretched creature, pathetic martyr and miserly slug.”

Airborne on black vapor, she begins to melt.

Tis a heavy loss. I loved that self.

The bisection reveals a polished surface, violet bands around the center,

a trefoil mouth, the paint completely peeled off, much hissing.

Small parts of the feet are chipped away. Now about one half of this vessel is missing.

Sparrowhawk Proud



A sparrowhawk proud did hold in jail, wicked wicked jail

music’s sweet chorister the nightingale, the sweet sweet nightingale.

To him with sighs she said, “Oh set me free. Already I feel dead.”

And in my song I’ll praise if set free no other bird but thee.

“I will not lose my diet plus I will forever keep you quiet.”

Bridget Manners

Lean was the invoice of her favors winsome sweet with little savor

reflecting a lack of sophistication,

pure and ignorant of courtly machinations.

For the sweet life I try. I do what I can to gracify.

See me as I am- I’m plain without guile, and a delicate smile.

Remember the state of a fatherless maid. Shall thy young years be darkened by cupid’s shadow?

Arm thyself against desire with a chaste disdain. And maintain your aim.

An innocuous girl. A meddling grandmother’s tool.

Gradually she became meatcarver to the Queen. Sweet on the scene.

No fault, no harm, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.

Sweet on the scene.

Indian Weed

A noble patron is forcing a maiden to keep her pretty little mouth shut tight.

He’ll keep her secrets concerning her humiliating sins, and this is what happens

when virtue is turned around and preyed upon, made to hurt you.

Penelope was lacking in simplicity. She was a waster with the wormwood and the Indian weed.

There’s always something to hide. We’ve all got an unfulfilled need.

People live with secrets all the time. You’ve got yours, I’ve got mine.

Psychopathic Logic

No empathy he has. He says, “No, not for anyone but me.”

Oh so empty his blank, black eyes. His blank black eyes- they cannot see

Any tender, human real skin- only dots, tiny dots on a tv screen.

For that is psychopathic logic-

All alone keeping his hands clean.


“She had it coming to her.” My psycho, he says that all the time.

“The hell I give her, it is better. She doesn’t even know that she is mine.”


Other lives to him, they are worth nothing. They are just puppets, puppets in a lens.

He gets off on all of her suffering. He is just jealous, jealous of her friends.


Ownership to him is central, to own the girl, to own her world.

In truth, he’s so scared of her, he can’t love her, that is sure.

For love is a loving topic- a feeling human to the core, defying his psychopathic logic. 

He can’t feel it from his point of view as a ghost on the floor.

Taken Scary

When you’re traumatized, you take everything as scary. You don’t talk anymore, you just keep it buried.

When you’re traumatized, you take everything as scary. Some faceless freak said he wanted to get married.

Anticlimactic for such a mess, she got the blood off of her hair and off her dress.

No one ever noticed, she never did confess. That faceless freak had really scared the girl to death.

Her death it plagued him bad. He thought what could he do? Could he offer up his sorry soul to get her back brand new? Lo, behold, to his surprise a deal was struck that night. Twas left to him to figure out just what could make things right.

When you’re traumatized, everything reads like threats. How’s a girl to believe I’m sorry is what he meant?

He enacted schemes and plans, but never did they meet. He changed his ways, he taught her lessons beautiful and sweet. Mistakes he made, but was he human? It was so extreme. He never slept, he rarely ate, he was working toward his dream. He loved her so, the girl, you know, so how could he be so mean?

When you’re traumatized, you take everything as scary. Anymore, you just keep it buried.

When you’re traumatized, you take everything as scary.You don’t talk anymore, you just keep it buried.

When love has raised the dead, made a whole new girl from a goner,

How could she think to thank her captor for the honor?