Jack the
Necromancer
Simon
MacCulloch
My life, my perspective, a single-track tunnel
With too many twists to show light at the end.
The century’s death sucks me down in its funnel
And destiny’s shadow distorts the next bend.
The crystals of gypsies spat mist when I viewed them.
The lines on my palms led to nowhere, it seems.
The auguries, omens - the fools misconstrued them.
The entrails they spilt offered nothing but steams.
I sacrifice strumpets to summon their spectres
(The killing of vermin is scarcely a crime).
My triumph will serve to confound the objectors
With proof that a ghost can see forwards through time.
But now they engulf me; I prowl through their presence,
A lost lonely legend who whines like a dog
To learn that this filthy miasma’s the essence
Of futures whose mass-produced phantoms are fog.
