Poetry

Is the occultist aware she’s daring,
That she carries the shadiest orifice?
No.
She just defecates and scars remain.


Akin to the likes of an unmarketable comedian:
passion on one side, narcissism on the other.
‘Twas unforeseen.


Enemies working together,
Exchanging callous banknotes.


No one had foreseen this.


Eventually, she’ll cripple
from depositing and withdrawing.
But no one knows.
No one can ever know.