Night.
Samhain approaches.
Full blue moon.
I lie prone stoned.
Play Marianne Faithfull’s
“20th Century Blues — A Night in the Weimar Republic.”
The grey cat yowls.
I flip the porch light on.
Go outside.
In black with Bind Trump sigil.
Mask of cherubic Satans.
There are two gallons of coconut oil
In the box outside.
Apocalypse prep.
The House of the Rising Sun closed down.
In cube centimeter node.
For an indefinite future.
My consciousness
And corporeal form inside.
“Alexa, how long until the election?” I say.
“There are seven days until Election Day.”
Then the unknown.
“Rapellendum mallum quod minatur mihi,” I say.
Cast a warding cube in rombus.
As above,
So below.
Two pyramids.
Faceted stone.
An single eye surveils.
As I am surveilled.
“Giving good as you get,”
From a song long ago.
The screens I watch,
watch me, I know.
“His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here.
To watch these woods fill up with snow.” — Robert Frost
Any day now it will snow.
Any day now my period will come.
No men since Obama.
Yet
I do not feel
In my body
The tumescence
Of womb blood.
Glutted bloat.
No.
There is nothing inside me,
But a lean wash of coffee.
Cold.
Black.
Andrea Lambert 