I: Isabelle

There was a frail coy bird thinning of its wings, an article of brunette’s string upon it,
She was a pale piece of work with an ego like crystal in the black night, hands bloodied of her sins.

Deep holes as eyes had no forgiveness for her torturer the creature of religions, and in her readings, a note of chasteness,

Her face was of the nun who possessed her pamphlets and regards, her story of the bedlam that occurred was in her home.

She used to suck the sticks like a meager widow which she became, and it was then her voodoos were her readings sucked from a witch in Santania,

Ordered the henchmen around the blocks with a coat of women all in denial of the grasps from her wickedness, terrored and empowered.

As began the witchcraft from her baths of sweat, she mouthed the words of the devil who blinded her and in the name of Geraldo it was conceived so persistently,

I could remember how she swept her brittle arms across the bed of wooden stacks, her reform into the creature was mystifying and so warm to me, Socorro.

II: Socorro

Now in the holy house of the second woman there were flies of pig silk and dye coming from the thins of the door slides,

Singing at the top of her lungs, voiced as the witch was Isabelle and her language of Santeria, mouthwash and black dye seeping from her sockets.

Crafted was a man in his torn denims, husky and fit for the part of her exposed bare handed slaps, detailed with lasers of hairs upon his chin,

His arms were of ducks because the devil enjoyed making her cream like the nostalgic days of her Mexican home, squid like and wormy.

She laughed at the certain ways his Screwface parroted the look of losing time, gawking and so profound like a magic man of fevers,

Slid the nail through his heart and soaked the mouth with vinegar and soil, hysterics dropping like flies in the cicatrix room of gypsies they were.

Stretched a rope around his legs for these dreaded days of sex and sin, had him drained for seven days in a beckon of cunning tempers,

And they’ll never see what really happened to him, betokened a night for the sisters acceptance to speak to the one, the being with serpents for friends.

III: Ella

The horseman of this town deserted and distraught, came to be the one of genie wishings and footstool lamp heads,

Marbles on the floor from when she went insane by the powers of demon man, a toothpick stuck in her gums.

This never mirrored the killings of the dead and broken immigrants, soothed and calmed by the tokens of her reflections,

Satan gave her many wishes amongst the pillar of ghost reveries and a baying behind her, toast and pickled to her liking.

Ella the redeemer of words in destiny’s fate should tender many passages, underneath the silver trinkets oozing from her mouth,

And in the time of the second sight, there were gypsies of the early nuns who punctured her ghost in the name of Santeria the queen of maths.


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