I think there are going to be illustrations for these at some point – I’ve been messing with some pen-and-ink styles, trying to figure out a good, clear way to draw the more text-heavy parts of Sects. It miiiiight not surprise you to learn that I was really into Edward Gorey’s books as a kid? So with these little couplets, please imagine a Gorey-esque macabre alphabet in dense Victorian style. But, like, Gorey drawings as executed by a drunken cockatiel flapping up and down, shedding feathers and drool, gripping a pen in one spasming zygodactyl claw. That’s about what you can expect from me.
Black cat catches fire on the staircase –
who knew you could train a cat for arson?
The culprit escapes, after a fashion –
only its yowl makes it out of the place.
Every new moon, flyers blanket the front door,
the branded wings of bats crisscrossed with scars,
the logos of local churches and bars –
some of those places aren’t there anymore.
The house next door has begun to erode –
every morning there’s a little bit less.
Might be the termites at the dryads’ place.
The Wooden Girls, of course, claimed not to know,
but then we saw their mother’s writhing dress,
the masochistic pleasure on her face.