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inside a salem parlor—Jake Tringali

you will not fuck with the goddess

 

goddamn hoodie-wearin’ child, and her friends, my red runes

of slaughter’ll spill over your broken rabbit’s foot. no,

you can’t get a neck tattoo, princess, and there is no such

thing as the modern vampire

 

precious, just shop, and applaud yourself in my parlor, buy

that bundle of wildwood sage, to bring home and burn next to your

picket fence, skyscraper condo, euro cottage, subzero fridge,

whatever, i’ve got work to do

 

my practiced skills linger, occult and otherwise, you continue

to cackle as your manicures dare to touch my grimoire, my

folio, the scented candles that we really made in the summer backyard

as the ladies laughed darkly

 

tell your cheering nuggets to sit the fuck down, follow yo momma’s

tramp stamp and exit, take your mall dye kit wit’cha, back

on the bus, fuckin’ tourist, light up that clove ciggie,

whatever, I’ve got lots of work to do

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