Witch Queens and Wah Pedals(a hip-brat incantation in five licks) * for Ma & Lord Buckley

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I. That Frayed Papyrus Funk

Man, I cracked the cracked spine of Brood of the Witch-Queen,
pages yellower than a last-call cigarette.
Smelled like basement tombs and your uncle's old LPs—
hieroglyphs in pulp ink, spelling out
doom spells and foggy London hexes,
while the kettle hissed
like some English mummy learning to swear.

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II. Mom’s in the Kitchen, But Not Quite

She's eighty now,
and time has looped her like a skipping Stones record—
“Time waits for no one…”
but she still sings it
like it was hers, baby.
I spoon her cereal like a high priest with holy grain,
and she stares past me,
eyes dialing into dimensions
where Mick Jagger’s still dangerous
and the backyard is a 1963 dance hall.

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III. Power Chords vs. the Pharaoh

Between check-ins and tea warm-ups,
I plug in the Strat,
chase the ghost of Link Wray down a black alley.
Lay down a track so raw it bleeds—
call it “Curse of the Queen's Left Eye.”
Reverb thick as séance smoke,
bassline like a sarcophagus shutting.
Ain’t no Spotify for this, Jack—
just hiss, tape, and righteous distortion.

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IV. The Stones Don’t Forget

Mick's got that voodoo strut,
Keith’s riffs are old world curses
bottled in Jack Daniels and bone.
We spin Goats Head Soup on Mom’s dusty turntable,
and she nods off with a smile—
“‘Angie’ always made me cry,” she murmurs
to the wallpaper.
I light a candle.
Not for spirits—just for groove.

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V. Final Chorus (in Low E)

So here I am:
half caregiver, half rock warlock,
reading a century-old scare story
between Cheerios and mic checks,
summoning solos like spells,
feeding riffs and memory
to a woman who once danced
to the beat that I now build.

Time ain’t linear—it’s a B-side loop.
And I keep playing
even as the Queen creeps
and Mom hums
and the paperback unravels
in my witch-rock hands.

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