Cara’s picture, torn from a fashion magazine,
is laid carefully in the center of the pentacle.
White candles, white light.
The demons have come; it is night time.
There is no rain to wash them from the windows.
There chattering draws blood from my dreams.
Cara is an angel from Hollywood Olympus, up in blue sky.
I invoke her youth and lust and wild heart in this night.
I want to be alive and real again.
The demons drag dead bodies from my memory.
They mock the corpses in the harsh light.
They grow powerful from this grave robbery.
Cara, I draw peace from her flesh, blood of her soul.
I draw the air of Hollywood Olympus into my lungs,
Let glamour win the day!
Morning, finally rain, knocking on my window,
to let the moths into breed and die and become seeds,
Cara is here, with a knife, to rectify the balance.
The snatching of purity was worth it.