I get a wee bit naughty when I’m high.
Everything is beautiful.
Stars take on a new kind of beauty, forming celestial matrices I marvel at,
peak my existence.
Music tango’s a discourse; ecstasy, sorcery, mischief & mayhem,
my mind’s eye pulsing in time to rhythmic sex, swirling into everything & everyone around me,
Sparks untangle in my psyche & I am forgiven my sins. I traverse the esoteric alchemy of my mind, body & soul, caressing everything alight in you
& nothing else matters.
I’m turning into a tradie.
Either that or a hippie, except I refuse to stop using soap even when my nasal passages fail to deliver the final blow.
I love wearing perfume, Tuscany per Donna in particular (except I’m running out), a floral oriental with sweet, woody undertones that matches my mood.
I’ve never understood the mentality of ‘Eau de Naturale’ when everyone else has to pay through the nose.
I burn Sandalwood for peace when I’m pottering around my home making her pretty.
I look like a tradie though these days, complete with hi-vis shirt, hobnailed boots and fluro socks. No make up.
I’ve let my long hair, grey naturally like a witch; an interlude between lives only donned for that special occasion once in a blue moon, when I speak easy.
Perhaps a Dharma Bum or a tradie with hippie/witch tendencies? It doesn’t really matter – I scrub up ok.
‘Mirrors, mirrors closing round
By my will you now are bound.
Whatever ill you seek to do
Reflected back six times on you’,
says She, the Witch.
© Copyright 2018, Jodine Derena Butler & Poetry Out West. All Rights Reserved