Sunday 26 November 2017



"Trap him in a tree" 

said it, 
said she, 
the hiss-embodied voice, 

A potion flew 
through air cold 
as ice sharper 
than a kiss-blade knife. 

Green it landed, 
soothed the flesh though 
fears turned churning, 
 burning mesh; 

its sigil 
carving deep 
through meat, 
a ritual mark, 
its work complete. 

These words are not mine.
(Were they ever?)

They came unbidden 
of their own accord, 
entranced into a world outside 
the regular absurd. 

This night 
"our work is done" 
say they, and l
eave me to sway, 
dizzy at the fade 
of a memory 
of what has been. 

A spell upon me 
cast by looking, at 
art on my screen 
from a place I have been.

The art is not mine 
either, it comes 
from the pen 
of Mark Simpson, 
better known as Jock 
for the script of Scott Snyder: 
the Wytches.

I have not as yet
insomuch as
opened the book.

But given, 
I have to.

UPDATE 13.12.17

it arrived
a week ago
by post.
as yet
i have not dared
to look inside.