The Sad Magician Laments His Lost Lover
the sharp-bearded copper man with skeleton key fingers & coin-slot eyes operates a dream projector, sprays stories on the living room wall with his eyelids pinned back, chanting: the tracks you built begin in me but end in your collarbone & no spine slick enough for your dark love to ride
The Sad Magician Gets Freaky In The Privacy Of His Own Castle
a pink basement where the warlock softly fucks till inkclouds explode across the room―the thick fuckmist loosed in his eyes ears open mouth. a blue kitchen where the warlock makes a peanut butter jelly sandwich & casts a no-crust spell, orders HBO just so he can watch Game of Thrones. later, eating cereal with a hatchet, turning fairy piss into Kool-Aid, weeping magic missiles into an oubliette
The Sad Magician Can’t Conjure One Good Reason To Do Magic
learn to swill stones or siphon lightning thru a straw. something. or just lie down, gush a daydream salve bleeding champagne through your shoe soles: how to sail this coffin till our corpses learn to swim
The Sad Magician Casts His Last Spell
magic is nothing when you’ve got a heart with no fire escape, all smoke & no flame. this cage without wings, this tongue without spit, this tree with umbilical cord & root-rot, exploding fruit but no juice. admit it: you can’t pretend you’re not pretending when all those butterflies in the kingdom are dead & only dead leaves remain. as last morning rises, the sad magician paints a lonely face on the side of the moon before collapsing into quicksilver star, a scar in the sky left to burn on empty fumes
