Granny Chaos

Ron Koppelberger

Granny Chaos

The curious brew was crossbred with disease and unfurled deserts of violence. Grannies fervor was a resonant rattle of pans and the silver luster of her mixing spoon. She measured out a dollop of depraved smiles and wicked woe, for the intrigue of a ventured challenge, for the gain of an appeasing moon and the misfortune of man.
Granny Chaos mixed her brew with the sordid crypts of insistent gambol, bets bidden in chance and fated turns of cunning. She mixed her cauldron of root and bloom, of anger and bitter embargo as she sang,

“Lawless, scaly

And jeer, the will of my

Cauldron in a year,

A night, a breath,

A pinch of death,

A telling lie,

A groan and a sigh,

The shade of night and by

The pure prophecy of

Sight, I flay the bones of the

Son in tomes and the

Flesh of a dream undone

By the seams,

A dah a dee te la I seethe mists of

Wing fly raven and the reverie of

A haven for all the fuss and

Flame of the stew,

The same”

Granny Chaos chilled her mix with the ice of an evil eye and the guile of a nightmare demon. In this unheard a drop of love, for the sake of mankind.