The Witch Doctor’s Party (or The Kiss of Fate)

 

The voodoo man hexed me

into coming to his party

His house was dressed as a cheerleader

in a stolen uniform

I arrived with a battering ram

having sardined extra pacifiers

in the suburban lappet of my B-52

I was bushwhacked at the threshold by the Norns

who deftly weaved the gauntlet

and ushered me into overstuffed aspirations

I plucked Grief from the coffee table 

and shared the hors d'oeuvres

with the youngest of the Fates

who followed me to an early grave

as I noted Handel’s arrival

Schrodinger's cat was unboxed

in time for lasagna 

but found the waveforms superimposed

As blackened nightshade was scooped out

everyone except the Triad and me 

wore the full monty 

by introducing themselves as Anonymous

Two years later 

as the apes approached the monolith 

Phobos and Deimos 

achieved geosynchronous orbit

over dessert

The voodoo man tried to abscond 

by secreting the doll into his coffin

Kicked to a canter

I redly huffed the witch 

a bleached charm 

until his skin bubbled into glass 

He was last seen through

painting powder with a jailed kimono

and spreading chipotle mayonnaise

in the park with Shakespeare 

I unpinned the doll

and embraced beam technology

Then beneath the stereoscopic stereotypes

we waved bonsoir to the zombies 

swallowing Bavarian rifles in the fog 

Too unforgettable to retain

we moonbeam valeted to the black wolf

where we perspicaciously perceived

that we were in fact

unrelated prospective Wonder Twins 

who managed to master magic

before their rings even touched

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Published by Synkroniciti Magazine Vol. 5, No. 4, Katherine McDaniel, editor