Girl will finish drowning for the seventh time in four years; she must be pretty adept by now.
Each She is a fragment. Each fragment is a piece of Mollie.
Mollie Ann Baker is an imp who’s initials reveal a faerie queen beneath the glittering surface of Tennessee water that her people refuse to bathe in.
The water spills out of a holy well which, when penetrated deeply (and wetly) reveals Tam Lin in all his naked transformative glory.
Hold tight to that one and he’ll give you the happily ever after you’ve been waiting for, or so the minstrels say.
He always slips through my fingers when he recognizes me as the Dana to his Zor, primed for immolation; devastated to be losing me once again. Thrice damned. Forever haunted.
Faerie Queen Mab (M.A.B.) doesn’t actually hold the prince as prisoner; not for love & never for sacrifice.
Blood Queen is happiest in the embrace of ocean smelling mermaid ghost werewolves, twice devoured by terrifying thing beneath what is seen by the sane and the deadly dull.
Mother and daughter, frothy creature is beautiful, sad, not entirely human (if at all).
My Mab could teach her a few songs, I’m sure.
My Mab is more than human, extraordinary beyond us all and yet sister to worlds within worlds; she holds us all in her ginger wreathed collection of dreams, nightmares and visions, gives us meaning, laughter, mirth and a sobering empathetic sorrow that we might appreciate the solace found within her coils.
Mab, beheld is a monstrous beauty which wild with grief for events still to come still gives precious smiles…
And when lucky mustard seed bottle cap talismans shatter the glass to be pocketed like coins — with that much luck and a fire of bones ‘neath lilting pipes on nights when the Unseelie Court dance naked round Old Oak’s Children of acorn and water lily… On nights such as these our Mab may summon her human type voice, call through the wires to shock, bless, talk of when we were once human together in Michigan type semblance of life.
Lucky am I for recognizing the wonder that so many mistake for imagined mysticism.
M.A.B., My Mab, My Mollie, Queen of Faerie, Sib of my heart: Bless us all with a sea siren song of words through thine art.
Dancing ecstatic on a Barrel of a Gun until mariachi band boards the train and hideous smelling woman’s back fat covered in deceptive pink is pressed between slats to assault, scar, wound and torment my once focused psyche.
Pig thing whines and runs as NIN sings about Year Zero.
