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Get a copy of this writing in the Mark Fleury 2017 poetry book the Eight Wheeled Doorway of Serpent’s Head on line:

Pagan Poem

Mark Fleury

Now that there are energized

Lime rinds in the clenched fists

Of witches, they’ll leave them
On turntables for green spins

On vinyl until the needles
Turn music

Into snakes
Swallowing their own Holy Grails.

The bails of hay

That the stereos are on
Have no use for the needle

In the haystack
Of your hopes and dreams.

The red

From the flames has been structured
Into the bricks of factories,

And the yellow and orange, leaping

Like the tapped shoulder of a freemason,

Is in the ring of the telephone
On a pillar made of cement
In the center of your career.

The choir of Angels when you answer
Is on Rolling Stone’s current cover.

Their rainbows have been stabbed

To death by the horns of unherded unicorns.
Even the shadows of each color

Are bleeding from the wounds

Of their enemies.

The magazine’s gloss
Can feel the pain. That’s how strong

Prisons of guilt are. Innocence is the wail

Of the burning witch
Coming from the same phone call.

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