Death Lesson - 22
"If you don't know where you are going, any road will take you there."
- The Chesire Cat: Lewis Carrol.
“When people are finding meaning in things - beware.”
- Edward Gorey.
The witch had sewn him up, re-stuffing him when it was required and leaving Rumple Gorey entirely patched up. He was a collage of former dresses and old underwear. Sitting on a chair at the kitchen table. The cottage in the woods was one large room, with trinkets, books and necessary ingredients for witchcraft. Jars of colored sand and painted rocks sat in the center of the table. This witch was an apparently an aging hippy, or at the very least was into some new age shit.
"the point is you have to free the Fuckboys!" said the witch. her eyes distant as if she were staring at her own ambitions somewhere on the horizons. "well, while that is grand and all I think I will be on my way." Said Rumple. "No, not until you have read the prophecy." "prophecy?" "yes, prophecy!" after this was said the witch went to her room while rumple thought of a way to escape, but disappointment was on a leash by the door, so rumple sat indignant. she returned with a small book, a picture book that was eight pages long and had an illustration on each page with a verse accompanying it. "well," she said "go on and read it." so rumple holding the book in his fabric hands began.
The wish of whistler havoc
Or, the wind blows weird threw the forget me not.
So riding through the forget me not.
Whistler havoc yodeling a tune.
Of Sara Susan "oh my soon to be",
with teeth made of gasoline fumes.
The cowboy on the ostrich thought
"oh boy, so soon I will be with you."
the ostrich screamed for none to see
While whistler heard all, confused.
But Sara Susan was a witch who thought
boys can't brush their teeth too soon
that his whistling could not redeem,
for this idiot was confused.
she sold her soul, a blue devils lot
to give witches a way to share truth
as needles give rag-doll screams
she whistles for death to come through
The demon said "you give what you caught.
the music dying, though old at noon."
the witch needles in his heart to mean
that forget me not was shifting dunes.
so he stays there to this day, sadly caught.
Suffering from his undeserved but true
with his only hope being rumple sought
the king fuck boy who was born to lose.
a wind blows weird as shifting dunes
The forget me not is ill at ease
a tapioca desert of ruin
with suffering worked into the grease
mumble jumbles eat dung beetles
and devour waking dreams of youth
while ballerinas dance a recital
to the song of sexual abuse.
"well, that was interesting." "now," said the witch "you must find a way to free whistler from me." "you're the witch?" "yup." she said.
- The Chesire Cat: Lewis Carrol.
“When people are finding meaning in things - beware.”
- Edward Gorey.
The witch had sewn him up, re-stuffing him when it was required and leaving Rumple Gorey entirely patched up. He was a collage of former dresses and old underwear. Sitting on a chair at the kitchen table. The cottage in the woods was one large room, with trinkets, books and necessary ingredients for witchcraft. Jars of colored sand and painted rocks sat in the center of the table. This witch was an apparently an aging hippy, or at the very least was into some new age shit.
"the point is you have to free the Fuckboys!" said the witch. her eyes distant as if she were staring at her own ambitions somewhere on the horizons. "well, while that is grand and all I think I will be on my way." Said Rumple. "No, not until you have read the prophecy." "prophecy?" "yes, prophecy!" after this was said the witch went to her room while rumple thought of a way to escape, but disappointment was on a leash by the door, so rumple sat indignant. she returned with a small book, a picture book that was eight pages long and had an illustration on each page with a verse accompanying it. "well," she said "go on and read it." so rumple holding the book in his fabric hands began.
The wish of whistler havoc
Or, the wind blows weird threw the forget me not.
So riding through the forget me not.
Whistler havoc yodeling a tune.
Of Sara Susan "oh my soon to be",
with teeth made of gasoline fumes.
The cowboy on the ostrich thought
"oh boy, so soon I will be with you."
the ostrich screamed for none to see
While whistler heard all, confused.
But Sara Susan was a witch who thought
boys can't brush their teeth too soon
that his whistling could not redeem,
for this idiot was confused.
she sold her soul, a blue devils lot
to give witches a way to share truth
as needles give rag-doll screams
she whistles for death to come through
The demon said "you give what you caught.
the music dying, though old at noon."
the witch needles in his heart to mean
that forget me not was shifting dunes.
so he stays there to this day, sadly caught.
Suffering from his undeserved but true
with his only hope being rumple sought
the king fuck boy who was born to lose.
a wind blows weird as shifting dunes
The forget me not is ill at ease
a tapioca desert of ruin
with suffering worked into the grease
mumble jumbles eat dung beetles
and devour waking dreams of youth
while ballerinas dance a recital
to the song of sexual abuse.
"well, that was interesting." "now," said the witch "you must find a way to free whistler from me." "you're the witch?" "yup." she said.
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