black magic

Some poor boys deal in illusion.  Always turning tricks on stage.  Flash paper and mangy rabbits. Glitter masses with grandma's hymnal...

They chant and chant, summoning familiar phantoms to make it feel better, to give them bigger cocks, or winning lottery numbers...

Those boys with their silky top hats and their silky, knotted handkerchiefs that go on and on and on.  They only want one thing:  Something different.  Something else.

But I'm learning the ways of black magic.  Sifted out through graveyard dust and the powdered bones of broken dreams.  I'm learning the freedom of hopelessness--what if feels like to have your spine snapped by the sharp teeth of the black madonna.

Abracadabra.  Presto.  Black magic is a disappearing act.  Say goodbye to ego.  Say goodbye to ruling the world.

We're off to see the wizard, my friends...deep in the hall of the mountain king...through the hole in the bottom of the sea...

Black magic means embracing the secret fire, sucking from Kali's teat, letting the tightly wound fibers of identity unravel into the abyss.

It's in this churning, refining, alchemical storm, sturm und drang that I begin to learn the spells, the incantations and evocations to create and destroy all worlds.

I am a servant of the secret fire--thrusting, penetrating, spouting hot, salty creativity into the splayed and waiting holes of possibility.

Fucking divine, man.  Fucking divine.