wytchcroft

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- who bears witness now... rising up from the mud with his long hair twined like the roots of a dark dead tree.

"I could give you knowledge..." he once said to me, with a dry bone rattle shaking his holyness.
"But would you be willing to bite?"

And the gleam of the moon off the blade.

"After knowledge comes the Fall."

Nixon wired up inside a fortress - the White House echoing with evil ghosts walking the long empty corridors - the stale box rooms where so many men have itched beneath their collars. Pacing in stale box rooms across America, across the time-zones - from freight trains to the Watergate hotel.
Nixon wired up and his weary mutter, "The President can't fall..."

"After the Fall comes knowledge."

The words as the apple is passed - but when I bought the gun the old lipless man in the store said nothing, just grunted as he counted my change.

As the fortress falls - but dead men can rise again - with a shake of the head and a stick as the Pardoner comes. Best they stay in the ground.
"The President can't fall..."

But he does - Ford falls - tumbling like a clown down the air-plane steps. A whisper of wind - I don't know if I even pulled the trigger, just a wild old woman, joining the circus and lost in a young girl's skin. Who walks now the long empty corridors and the stale box rooms and listens to the rattle of iron and sees forever a President fall - only to rise again.

And the dead leaf laughter of the Pardoner - but will he come I wonder - and am I to be pardoned for firing the gun - or pardoned for the crime of missing.

And who will bear witness as the same charade is acted out down the years -
like a ritual mummer play, like a sly old carny coming into town.
With a clanging of bells and a trill on the whistle - a song from the women.
I sang along once, so long ago, with a young voice; slick, slippery as blood..
The Siren's lure - who could resist?

I sang a song once
called Cease to Exist.