Mama Juūba

I

They whisper, they whisper

about blood and blisters

behind closed doors and filthy alleys

of the bittersweet nights of New Orleans

gathered in clubs they are allies

and audience of the crimson scorpion

towering dressed in sick neon glow

marking the entrance to the gate,

to the hell-raised show.

Thick air, musk and sweat

the sweet breath at the hex’s grasp

Slow movements, trance, the outlet

of a compressed mindset clasp

the soul reaching primal source

among dirt and warm water

back to the swamp and the coarse

stone, witness to the manslaughter

of days of old.

II

Among the mass of heat

among the bodies of lust

the woman leans over the seat

as asks of tales of trust.

Her friend laughs, glass to their lips.

“There is only tales of feeling”

they reply, eyes an eclipse.

“Tales of sinister dealings

of the sign outside

that taints the wall

with an unsatisfied

demand, an un heard call”

“What do they ask for” she asks,

her feet tapping the rhythm.

“She calls us to drop the mask

to feel the symbolism

of the night”

III

“She?” is asked by her muffed voice

hidden behind the beat and lights.

“Her voice is understood only by choice,

for those behind the bar are their rights.

There was once a swamp,

you know, below the floor

and She feels our stomps

beating the lyrics of her lore”

The friend shuts and pulls her

close enough for their breath to be

felt. “She is the whisperer,

She is the mud and the tree,

She had a hut in the quagmire,

before the massacre.

She had beasts set the pyres,

before they came.

Her veins extended below the surface

She sank her toes in the ground

symbiosis was the purpose

and so she became the earth’s wound

IV

“Tales of witchcraft are your forte, my friend,

but of curses and hexes are not proper,

for her soul to transcend

is to dwell in the macabre”

said the unwilling woman

and her friend stood back

“Our mind’s blind cause our ears are human

but we dance to bear of our lack.”

The friend brought her close again

a whisper in her ear.

“But still we dance in the veins

of the craft that won’t disappear.

You only have to listen, listen

to the words lie hidden

in the neon that glisters

in the patterns forbidden.

Soon you’ll hear the words she preaches

and the magick they pose

She teaches

only her name disclose

Soon you’ll meet the freedom’s succuba

of the name Mama Juūba”

- Inspirado en el personaje de Raúl

- Written 13-11-2017