Black Mare’s Death Magick Mother (kind of) Reviewed
Like a Halloween night spent in bed with pneumonia. Like a candle burning out, the flame usurped by a thin line of smoke. Like groans of pleasure resounding in a mausoleum. Like a place in the woods where the trees grow in eerie rows and the stillness is not of this Earth. Like a glass of red wine to wash down the sleeping pill. Like a spiderless web, intricate and pointless. Like a trail of autumn leaves blowing in through a door left open. (Like a witchless broom, good for nothing but sweeping up dead leaves.)
Like the love-song of the maggots and the carcass. Like an empty-headed stroll through a crepuscular graveyard where time and the elements have rendered the stones illegible. Like a lucid dream about a dead friend in which the part of you that participates is the same part that knows it isn’t real. Like a book of horror stories you only started because an old lover gave it to you–and one which, now that you are no longer lovers, you know you will never finish.
Like an endless funeral procession stopping traffic, breaking up the monotony of a rainy Thursday in February. Like a silent expressionist film played at full volume. Like the yawning maw of a tunnel that leads to the womb of the Earth. Like a wreath of dead moths littering the ground beneath a broken lamp. Like a wrought-iron weathervane spinning, creaking under a lifeless sky. Like a Rorschach test in which all the inkblots look like hanged women. Like inches of dust. Like a mass grave left uncovered at the frozen end of time. Like the last dance you’ll ever dance again.