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Pornographer of Left-hand magic, you

said. Freak. Pervert. Hecaté understands;

we both speak vulgar Latin. The taboo

that you call lust still stands. Magic commands

so much. I burn thyme, hemlock, devil’s weed,

coating my cauldron’s concave sides with ash.

My blood that I kept on ice has jellied,

along with my dumb cum. The zigzag slash

cut in my palm desists to scar. I mix

the red slop with the cinders. “Lingis,”

Hecaté said, “non futuis meam.” Lick me,

don’t fuck me. This is prayer, too. All that licks.

All that laps. All that sucks. Watch how I kiss

her cunt, phosphorescent and velvety.



Hecaté is the Roman goddess of crossroads, witchcraft and ghosts. In a world obsessed with duality we’re told that all which is, “dark must be sinister,” (Left-hand magic), while all that is, “light must be good” (Right-hand magic). Must be, must be, must be. I find such moral claims contemptible since there is no good or bad, black or white, just muddled, ashen gray.