The Witches’ Tournament

London, what a psychedelic trip
High on augmented witchery
Flames spark from the flair in my hands
SOS, I need aid
Now can you hear me?

Where am I to be found?
Wandering in the smoggy maze
Chasing my own hawed tail
Like an innocent Cedric Diggory
Such a baseless tragedy
Overcome by swollen reptilian horns
Of diseased materialism
And a cursed genocidal eternity

Flail away my skin part by part
Sharpen your athame
Let the whittle mould me
Let the decay punish me
With its sadistic sores and oozing pores
Bleed me like Jesus Christ
With a crown of thorns upon my head
Drain me until I give up the wraith
And return to me the gift of shaded perpetuity

Oh how the anguish wracks through me
And the blood-rose wine fills me up
With baseless fantasy
Unfulfilled stormy sensualities
Let me wear scanty black lace head to toe
And crack the whip that defiles the daughters of doom
The river of vitality flows darkly within
Flooding the plains of the ghoulish Cockaigne

Oh how the nucleus in your pupils are faded
How the dye and glamour has run out
The foundation around me slips like slithering silicon sands
Until all I can clench is my own contorted heartbeat.

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