A hand-sewn, hair-stuffed, leather doll –
this animistic skin I live in.
A mere prick brings me down to a crawl –
the stabbing spasm of a pen.
An incense offering; slurs swirling
in the candlelit prison,
dubbed by the skull-trapped chanting;
I, being my own greatest minion,
soon to find myself chasing
my own tale of occult curses.
The flickering candles now drooling
their molten, inky hexes.
Addicted to all this backstabbing
I am bound to blow smoke up
my own arse. An incense offering
for the tabloid god of gossip...
Nathan Bednarek 2009.