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"Who Put Luebella down the Wych Elm?" There are rumours about me, some come seeking me with their geiger counters and ouji boards with their heart shaped planchettes unanswered questions in the woods, crackling within the sounds of leaves invisible dead things speaking underfoot white noise boxes that ghosts are meant to genuinely speak through radio signals code for decoding intrepid other spectrals that touch the soil let it slip through their fingers, like time; they say, they can sense me, feel me still, through that mere touch they listen but do not speak to me as such; what was once, all now seems forgotten and lost; there are rumours about me, they say I was found in the hollow of dead life, for a short spell in the middle of the woods, the wych elm and all that, they say I am a witch but that’s present tense, the past would make it "was", but just because the whispers suggest, a hand of glory separated and lit, doesn't mean, it was; if they could just piece the story correctly, bit by insane bit; then others, say, that I used these slender bones once covered in flesh with the urgent pressing of fingertips, to transmit more singular compelling signals; some say, I passed once upon a life for intelligence, I adroitly consider perhaps they have their wires crossed, I now think intelligence is in the eyes and beaks of birds, hair taken for weaving nests, skin carrion fed for hungry creatures all wanting to be fed, there was plenty of me, once, I was a plentiful feast; they say, you know, I arrived obscure, undercover of darkness, covertly urgent, very important special missions, regrettably terribly unfruitful I was set from the get-go to be seen unseen to be quiet and quite unremarkable, no records of me to be found, not even in the top secret jerry can records, I was considered naive I never existed you see, missing passport birth certificate medical records the history of teeth no loose lips here then, all the intrigue perhaps, they say the parachute business? same deal, different kind of witches, some say experienced, some say over-adventurous, untrained novices landing within enemy lines, always. I got all tangled up in the trees and landed down the $hit shute just like that; perhaps, some suggest I was 'just a' passing loose thread between two men at the local tavern, there are so many different types ... of witchy women, all branded for the slow burn blacksheep and scapegoats escaping something all on their own very special mysterious missions; they say, perhaps this witch drank too much and the special mission came to a halting crunch strangled in the back of a serially offensive humber super snipe crepe soled shoes dancing in thin air, the warm tight hands of a slick lizard squeezing some foreign kind of love life rationed out of the useless vessel like toothpaste from a disposable body mistakenly overcompensated covered in cheap perfume a soulless kiss no je t’adore perhaps a blessing, last thoughts from the dark smokey pall, "no street walking anymore" and before rigour mortis set in, these resourceful how should we put it, gentlemen? encased me possibly still breathing within the dead limbs of the wych like a sleeping baby, to teach me a lesson upon waking, never to take that trip again; nevertheless, whichever way you looked at it I was trapped alive, or dead on the money, they say, all's fair in love and war; there like an unwrapped mummy, I dreamt of a child once embraced, now lost like a paradox tightly overprotected by the limbs of a deadly wych elm tree kind of poetic, wouldn’t you say? there is no going back to before what was, past tense. present tense, I am now somewhere hidden and undiscovered in a dusty box of unclaimed bric-a-brac, an unsolved mystery; of course, such a great to-do for a while, messages written on stone walls, investigators all perplexed, vacinity of crime and all that… my remains were gathered and photographed by starched coats and soft shoes witnessing the hand detached at a distance from the ghoulish body no tap dancing fingers no piano playing scores no turning keys no touching faces physically opening doors, throwing panting dogs balls perhaps some fox or rat perhaps for a gypsy thief my digits and palm stewed slowly with eery incantations a waxy token like a candle lit all for the hand of glory the cards were dealt an eye for an eye war zones of some sort behind enemy lines in one way or another I was despatched. some curious cats still seeking the full story. they say, the piece of peach petticoat found in my throat, was torn by a boy who poaching for eggs, reaching into the sharp brambles of the thing, quite shockingly found my macabre skeletal head then, not wanting to be found to be on the wrong side, of the fence, that would be the lordly overseer’s grounds, took about tearing part of my frock and on sturdy twig stick, afixed the shred and poking it into my bony, yet thankfully voiceless throat, gingerly wedged me ("the ghastly thing") back into the womb of the wych the creatures and the whispering foliaged limbs of the forest all know by now, the true story unlike humans, they see me come and go, sometimes being familiar with the other, we speak of that time long ago and mercilessly laugh over it all I am with them all now shapeshifting through portals, there’s no coming back to the once was, I am close to elemental tied to darker realms the ones who took me down, well, their days are spent in a kind of swinging door hell I’m with them always now, like the woman in black they're in my hell haunting limitless dimensions leading them through strange labyrinths a shadow of my former self the mystery unsolved the story still waits like an unclaimed dance without a card sitting on a shelf (LadyLabyrinth / 2023)

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Who Put Luebella Down the Wych Elm

"Who Put Luebella down the Wych Elm?" There are rumours about me, some come seeking me with their geiger counters and ouji boards with their heart shaped planchettes unanswered questions in the woods, crackling within the sounds of leaves invisible dead things speaking underfoot white noise boxes that ghosts are meant to genuinely speak through radio signals code for decoding intrepid other spectrals that touch the soil let it slip through their fingers, like time; they say, they can sense me, feel me still, through that mere touch they listen but do not speak to me as such; what was once, all now seems forgotten and lost; there are rumours about me, they say I was found in the hollow of dead life, for a short spell in the middle of the woods, the wych elm and all that, they say I am a witch but that’s present tense, the past would make it "was", but just because the whispers suggest, a hand of glory separated and lit, doesn't mean, it was; if they could just piece the story correctly, bit by insane bit; then others, say, that I used these slender bones once covered in flesh with the urgent pressing of fingertips, to transmit more singular compelling signals; some say, I passed once upon a life for intelligence, I adroitly consider perhaps they have their wires crossed, I now think intelligence is in the eyes and beaks of birds, hair taken for weaving nests, skin carrion fed for hungry creatures all wanting to be fed, there was plenty of me, once, I was a plentiful feast; they say, you know, I arrived obscure, undercover of darkness, covertly urgent, very important special missions, regrettably terribly unfruitful I was set from the get-go to be seen unseen to be quiet and quite unremarkable, no records of me to be found, not even in the top secret jerry can records, I was considered naive I never existed you see, missing passport birth certificate medical records the history of teeth no loose lips here then, all the intrigue perhaps, they say the parachute business? same deal, different kind of witches, some say experienced, some say over-adventurous, untrained novices landing within enemy lines, always. I got all tangled up in the trees and landed down the $hit shute just like that; perhaps, some suggest I was 'just a' passing loose thread between two men at the local tavern, there are so many different types ... of witchy women, all branded for the slow burn blacksheep and scapegoats escaping something all on their own very special mysterious missions; they say, perhaps this witch drank too much and the special mission came to a halting crunch strangled in the back of a serially offensive humber super snipe crepe soled shoes dancing in thin air, the warm tight hands of a slick lizard squeezing some foreign kind of love life rationed out of the useless vessel like toothpaste from a disposable body mistakenly overcompensated covered in cheap perfume a soulless kiss no je t’adore perhaps a blessing, last thoughts from the dark smokey pall, "no street walking anymore" and before rigour mortis set in, these resourceful how should we put it, gentlemen? encased me possibly still breathing within the dead limbs of the wych like a sleeping baby, to teach me a lesson upon waking, never to take that trip again; nevertheless, whichever way you looked at it I was trapped alive, or dead on the money, they say, all's fair in love and war; there like an unwrapped mummy, I dreamt of a child once embraced, now lost like a paradox tightly overprotected by the limbs of a deadly wych elm tree kind of poetic, wouldn’t you say? there is no going back to before what was, past tense. present tense, I am now somewhere hidden and undiscovered in a dusty box of unclaimed bric-a-brac, an unsolved mystery; of course, such a great to-do for a while, messages written on stone walls, investigators all perplexed, vacinity of crime and all that… my remains were gathered and photographed by starched coats and soft shoes witnessing the hand detached at a distance from the ghoulish body no tap dancing fingers no piano playing scores no turning keys no touching faces physically opening doors, throwing panting dogs balls perhaps some fox or rat perhaps for a gypsy thief my digits and palm stewed slowly with eery incantations a waxy token like a candle lit all for the hand of glory the cards were dealt an eye for an eye war zones of some sort behind enemy lines in one way or another I was despatched. some curious cats still seeking the full story. they say, the piece of peach petticoat found in my throat, was torn by a boy who poaching for eggs, reaching into the sharp brambles of the thing, quite shockingly found my macabre skeletal head then, not wanting to be found to be on the wrong side, of the fence, that would be the lordly overseer’s grounds, took about tearing part of my frock and on sturdy twig stick, afixed the shred and poking it into my bony, yet thankfully voiceless throat, gingerly wedged me ("the ghastly thing") back into the womb of the wych the creatures and the whispering foliaged limbs of the forest all know by now, the true story unlike humans, they see me come and go, sometimes being familiar with the other, we speak of that time long ago and mercilessly laugh over it all I am with them all now shapeshifting through portals, there’s no coming back to the once was, I am close to elemental tied to darker realms the ones who took me down, well, their days are spent in a kind of swinging door hell I’m with them always now, like the woman in black they're in my hell haunting limitless dimensions leading them through strange labyrinths a shadow of my former self the mystery unsolved the story still waits like an unclaimed dance without a card sitting on a shelf (LadyLabyrinth / 2023)