why i’m crOne as fuck & why it’s nOne Of yOur business, but yOu shOuld be alarmed::start & finish On this here bOdy // the alpha, mother fucker Dare call me lovely and we’ve got a problem. You will feel the wrath of nine thousand imps. They do lie not dormant; they are not senseless. They are resting just below the surface, just below that scaly rash; on call for outbreak, on call to swipe out a fiend like you, a porno flame, a pussy lush, a real prick beater. My limbic system be divine, be awake, be on point. Crown me crone, I straddle broom, boy, and wolf –I hump into heaven that which should be purgatory. Should you call me pretty, I rebuke you. I rebuke you in the name of Odin, the king of all runes, the symbolic carvings etched deeply into fallen teeth. Odin comes for you in the curves of each word you mutter, in the crooks of your name as it slides from your veins like an underdeveloped cell, hungry the size of giants, remembering like fingerprints. You are not even safe from your own words, dear skank. Inside the cave of your mouth, I wait nine days, your tongue a blanket upon which I create spell and spill. I spit rotten teeth at you, I let spindles of saliva become you, I encase you. Do not expect your cocoon to be deific. The cocoon I spin shakes cradles and babies; men, rabies, and rapists. Look into my eyes, heathen, I am the bitch who will slap you clean of that filthy mind. I am pretty in my ugly, I am pretty as a gangrene toe. Before this is finished, you will call me pretty no more. From this day forward, I am the queen of the crones, the carrion baby you never wanted to have –yet, I persist, I exist despite your worst blathering, your worst prayer and supplication. Remember Odin galloping on the horizon of your droning. And my girl Hel posits several minions. // the omega, fool Call me hag. Devoid of age, I am both ageless and ancient. I am Manāt. Al'Uzza and Allat can stay with Hubal all they want, spread legs like spider web silk sheets, open like mouths for honey-covered loaves, ooze like milky galaxies over the moon. The grind that calls to me is here –digging my hands into this soil, planting pits, dissecting root from rat. Those two young things can stay all night fucking if they want; after all, young vaginas are the best fish of the sea and every boy wants a slice. As for me, I’m slicing my fingers, pressing hard into dirt, extracting mercury. Sit still and listen. Watch, do you see the slivers of skin peeling back, curling into words like blood into a capillary. It all reads hark. Not for angels or divinity, but for festering and depravity. Can you even fathom that of which I speak, drone? You can’t even manage a night of my ugly. To maintain the exquisite levels of dreadful, I paint this face from the stain of a plant called poison. She be not Bella Donna, but she very well could be Datura. She is birthed on quarter moon bellies, swollen into rounds of boils that pop at the yule of first winter’s snow. What is buried below is equal to, but not greater than, that which is above. The foul is not fouler at the head or the toe; as a matter of fact, it grows best like a beast on the back of a whale of a bear of a ogre of a me. Don’t you know I be the spoiled meat you dread to eat. Ravenous, you knife and fork away, in throbbing states you mate your mouth with my meat; stretched inside the innards, the guts of a brute like you, a brute of a lover of a smelly bastard of a shoe too big or small, but firm enough to kick you in the arse. My crone-ness does not play, she comes for sport and trophy. You will be conquered like the snapping of fingers, the snap of a neck of a bird who’s just seen opportunity, who’s spotted a fool drooling on bits of fleshy nipple handfuls, a bird clever enough to confiscate your eye when you’re not looking, off dreaming on some young pretty girl tissues that have nothing to do with you. Ugly duckling fetus spawned from ugly duckling sperm; swim through you –birth me now or I shall smite you yet again. Strength of sand systematic strikes matches and branches, crunch down on filaments, gather blades of sward –the nest I build caters to philistines and violators, houses heavy brick dicks that spy on too much lady bits. It suits you just fine. I am the death you should birth. What of Persephone and her time inside the earth, patient like an egg, quiet like a scheming demon. It is she and I you should fear. She be my hag sister and I be her lover. When we press again each other, we turn into your mother. Crone be the bone on which I balance, plucked penises from flower stamen, I pendulum writings sucked from a thousand squid ink pods. Write into face, right into fate –the horrid garden burgeons with lockets of your daughter’s hair, golden and raven alike. Pierce the iris and bleed out pupils for the coming year, for each year I blossom grotesque. I am breasts of ten pairs, nipples of hanging cow udders, nails of yellowed talons. I come from the nine worlds, bitches. Hard. Like hammered metal, sword status cutting limbs, sharpening teeth, penetrating virgins. Hard like a dozen penises in the hand of a celibate monk. Hard. Like a skull bashing into my heart. ----------------------------- image - Cameron Evans Bio: jacklyn janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. she can be found @ Thought Catalog, Luna Luna, DumDum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Pank, Split Lip, Landfill, Yes Poetry, feelings, Heavy Feather, The Opiate, Potluck, Vending Machine Press, Entropy; A Shadow Map (CCM) & Rooted anthology (Outpost 19); & elsewhere. she is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @ femalefilet. her chapbook fitting a witch//hexing the stitch forthcoming (The Operating System, 2017). she is an energy. find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrology readings.
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