Spider Tea

Amongst cobwebs I sat on her love-seat

while in the kitchen she turned up the heat

on her big pot, setting the tea to boil;

her house was old, dusty, lit with lamp oil

and so dim, illuminating the night

as if reluctant—for fondness, not fright,

and I saw a deck of cards, the Tarot,

arrayed by a book faced with a pharaoh

and I thought what an eccentric lady,

but did not mind, for, however shady,

she had a good figure, like an hourglass

in a red and black dress, and a big ass

that made my loins rigid with excitement

as I waited there, despite the light scent

of metal that lingered in the stale air

and the scurrying I heard here and there.

At length, she returned to the living-room,

holding two cups and a teapot abloom

with a wispy strand of spider-spun steam

that rose to the webbed ceiling, like a dream,

and she a dream herself, smiling at me,

saying, “Oh, you must try my homemade tea.”

Before I could speak, she turned about-face

and set the cups down on the mantelplace

above which were photos, old and faded,

black and white, the people grim and jaded.

She was old-fashioned like them, yet she smiled

and I liked her hair, like a beehive piled

atop her head, and the webbed jewelry

which should we soon get to tomfoolery

I would have liked her to keep on, just so,

as well as her black stockings, thigh to toe,

whereas all else would be shed, as a husk,

while entangled from dusk to dawn to dusk.

“I’m a witch,” she said with a mocking tone,

handing me my cup, pewter white as bone.

I said, “You don’t seem like a witch to me,”

for she was young, graceful and quite pretty.

“But I am,” she said, sitting herself down

right beside me and smirking at my frown.

“You see, I have used my cauldron to brew

this especial spider tea just for you.”

“Spider tea?” I said, looking at the cup,

the fragrant steam like phantoms rising up.

“Indeed,” she said, not at all like a crone.

“It is quite tasty when one’s all alone

and cold in the long winter months to come—

just as good as any brandy or rum

or hot cider or bourbon you might drink

to help you to, and also not to, think.

I said, “But what is it really made of?”

She smiled and said, “A black widow’s love

and the aloofness of a fiddleback

all smashed together, pressed in a small pack

and their eggs, too, along with their cocoons,

aged in a dank cellar for many moons

and steeped in my cauldron, or my teapot

if you will, until it is nice and hot

to bring about the best acridity.

I noted, then, the tea’s acidity

and remarked upon it, to which she said

“Quite.  The venom gives a kick to the head

which invigorates the intrepid blood

to swell and flow like a river in flood.

Not many men may stomach Spider Tea,

nor many men who may satisfy me.”

“I can handle it,” I said, sipping more

as I felt sweat drip from every pore.

I grinned and said, “I’ve had lots of rotgut,

from white dog to hooch, no drink ever cut

because a real man has a lead belly

and doesn’t have insides made of jelly.”

“Oh, you big boy,” she said, licking her lips

to which I grinned more, taking a few sips.

“Big in lots of ways,” I said, leaning in,

my hand slipping up her arm and down again,

and since she did not pull away, I kissed

her fingertips, her palm, and her pale wrist.

“Drink up,” she cooed.  “Don’t let it go to waste.”

I drank all the rest, not minding the taste

since I knew she’d soon sweeten the flavor

with her body, which I longed to savor.

Spider Tea now drank, she caressed my thigh,

then kissed me with lips succulent and sly,

and I felt so hot with lust at her touch

that I did not mind the pain quite so much

while my guts boiled badly from within, then,

and I breathed scalding steam like an engine.

“Do you want me?” she asked.  “Tell me you do

because I brewed Spider Tea just for you.”

I did want her, and I said so, again and again

while my lust burned and boiled outside and in,

and I melted for her, body and soul,

while she sucked me dry, drinking me whole.

Fairy Wealth, Or The Cure For Pessimism

There is much love to be had
and so much joy to enjoin,
far too much to be so sad
as if all a fairy coin,
and even so, covet leaf
in a purse of gilt Autumn
rather than indulge the grief
of a lordly, ill-got sum.
Some fear the poor peasant’s lot
and there’s much to fear in such
for what comforts might be bought
or fare found at such a touch,
but fairy leaf from the wood
can still make a bitter brew,
which when hot still tastes as good
if imbibed with wisdom’s dew,
for it warms and heals the soul
even when a trick is played,
drank inside when cold winds blow
with lemongrass from the glade,
whereas a brow on the throne
breaks beneath the coffers’ weight,
castles chilling to the bone
and troubles beyond the gate.
True his throat knows better food
and grows fatter, (never thin),
but it is his neck that’s hewed
if deposed by his cousin.
So when life gives you such wealth
from the Fae, those puckish thieves,
thank the errant, lying elf
and boil water for the sieves—
after all, you could brew tea
which might earn sums most handsome
from folks feeling quite chilly,
thus earning a king’s ransom.