The Occultist

I was 19. So were you.

The Folks warned me against 

You.

Your strange Creed.

Your love of amulets.

Still we shared a cigarette

On a moonless night

On my student balcony.

The stars shied away.

You spoke about Alestair Crowley,

If truth be told, you dissappointed me

For I wanted you to talk about Gustav's theory

And Shelley

Still we shared a kiss and the rest

For lust was, well just lust.

 

Six months on

Your love of cults and amulets

began to irritate

You stifled me with your dark words

Your obsession with Magick.

So I left.

 

Our parting wasn't amicable.

Lots of tears, soul searching and disgust

All at once.

 

News of you kept coming

Folks said you became

Stranger by each passing day

Drinking dens were your home

Your speech was slurred

Your vision blurred.

 

I saw you at your father's funeral last

A shadow of a man once:

A wreck

We didn't speak.

Pity overcame me

Still every cloud has a silver lining

Or so I thought

You inherited a handsome sum

 

Years to come

I saw a video

A honey hued tongue

Spilling poison about my folks:

The displaced people.

Thanking you for the money

You splashed on this bigotery

 

It enraged me

But I laughed

This was the red herring. The fluke.

The poison about my folks: the displaced people.

 

It was other things you 

You fed cruelly

To the folks, the information about

the money, the cash, the green bills

whatever other twangs that might describe it.

You put the pigeon amongst the folks.

Firmly.

 

 

Some months later you had the last laugh

Needless to say

It was this trash 

that made

the folks turn against each other

cause disquiet and unrest

 

You couldn't achieve it with your black Magick

 

You did it with your black money

Your black heart bled into mainstream

Irony of ironies!

 

 

 

Yasemin Balandi