“’Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.”
‘Ere,
I Am A-Witching.
A-Witchin’ In Ancient Vernaculars.
Hell itself,
Queer & foul,
Base or based,
As youths say.
Acidic additions unto water.
Piranha Solution Skin Paintings.
Flipped to the slippery melting of Bleach.
Magic Number Seven.
Hot blood?
For pumping,
Prefer my meat well-drained.
Protein never bitter,
Only tastes of rich umami.
Red meat?
Vice.
Me?
Contagion,
Of sorts,
Upon Reality.
Upon Humanity.
Historic Blight.
