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Cowboy and The Witch
By Robin Wyatt Dunn
The witch she’s dreaming she is sleeping I hold her in the dark Los Angeles night.
The witch she is dreaming she is Hecate apostrophe on the king his crown she fucks us all harder than anything inside the metal door the Gnostic rite cut patched upside her monkly corridor the stew the bubble toil and trouble trembling turbled god-maned and god-housed, the mind the fluid and the terrible embrace of Dream, her own―
My witch, if only you could be my witch, but you are never anyone’s...
I hold her, feeling her far away as she sleeps. She’s beautiful for that reason, made of so many things, made anew.
The violent door it holds my door, the violent door. The sky is far away and within me is violence but also, from whence it came. I bear its agency its rage and I carry, I am, in a sense, its past course. I am what violence was, and in this I become what I am, and what it is.
Violence is a door and so am I; and it holds mine, trembling, honorably, forcefield beyond the world, the hurt the murk and then the work we shirk before we rake our faces for the blessing of the memory the sight, all the things we suspect we always knew, it’s there inside the fist―
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