[Metal Hair sparks a forest fire.]
Metal Hair sparks a forest fire.
Her skin is run through with delicate
veins: define the jigsaw of heart into the outer reaches.
She is panicked, a metallic Medusa
who has lost control of her stone-
making eyes. She claws at her steel wool locks and redwoods
crash into cinders, orangey
embers hit the deadfall where you would break
a leg while tripping on acid out here in old-growth forest.
The flames fuck with her flesh
but it turns out this witch can’t even burn!
So she calms down, lights a Capri, exhales blue like a hairdresser.
“Same old story,” sighs Metal Hair.
She can cast spells better than
Bewitched, she just points and BOOM! Great explosions—
No nose-wiggle required, nope,
this one could tip the Titanic with will,
would delete the internet on a whim one day—no more free porn!
“I would meander a dotted-line
to rival Family Circus!” she purrs, “That Billy ain’t
got shit on me.” She taps her ash, these wrathful sighs are getting old.
Let us zoom out, the forest
fire fades into a blaze little Lego-men could
combat with their piss-streams. For Witch Weekly, I’m Ross Robbins.