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Occult

By Mayan Godmaire

Creative Writing Editor

Penchant for the occultist crashing on the third floor on the futon.

Wax drips, skulls, hot faces, wands, and love on the futon.

Thick curtains full of third century dust, tarot cards on the dark wood floor.

Got a thing for the occultist getting drunk on tea from the bottle.

In satin sheets on a moon-rinsed night, dreaming of nails and chalk.

That black cat upstairs howls; delicate teacups, citrus and mushrooms.

The velvet thought of tongues arouses the satin dreamer.

Penchant for the occult violinist whispering to crows out the window bars.

We met that velvet night: hot human bodies, sweat, wine stains, and hair.



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