When did we stop marching?
Picket lines made, unmade, remade
from picket fences
torn up by their roots before the cops arrive and
on Karangahape Road
the bumscrew boys whip out their cudgels
and dance the Osculum Inflame —
by moonlight we are witches
by daybreak we are men.
Faeries have secrets —
their ways are not our ways
ways of love
existing in a world of illusion
and sentimental make-believe
incantations around a frothing cauldron
and eaters of children.
Down the streets we chant the Perverts’ Almanac
forms emerge from the Blackthorn
and under the torchlight of a hostile moon
there are naked boys.
The young have secrets in the acoustic dark
the leather-bound dark
as if holding together the pages of our story.
We must acknowledge the numbness of absences
and until a sort of dawn breaks
we are witches,
we are witches.