Dancing Devil

In the midst of the dancing devil circus,
painted white and red,
she leaves us to stagger in the heat.
We can forgive each other
for the things we saw in dreams,
lonely fights with the monster,
we live underneath the belly.

Today I sweat off the negativity,
move to beaten paths of divinity,
live out the moment as if my feet
could sink straight down into the ground,
given the opportunity.

Take the red pill,
see the fall of sacred tempests
that make us swell together.
He cries out in the night,
we are losing our children.

Rebels out,
rise up and through glass rafters,
into the air,
between time and space.
Lift out of your holes,
your identity puzzles,
your dizzy spells.
We live in an age of a changing sun,
the moon our compass now. 

Heartbeat Earth

Living inside the heartbeat of the earth, I hunt for the requiem spaces of silence that hide me from those snarling dogs ever howling at the sultry sirens of the nighttime. Falling fellows, we land altogether abruptly in the sinkholes of the economy. We are stripped of our hypnotic collectables, our sacred encounters with the third eye of the sun.

Give the moon her last breath as she turns down the horizon and sleeps through the day, a curled smile flit across her face. Death slumps around on all fours and seems to drink black coffee and smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, his rusty voice fumbles over the lines of prophecy written with burning coals in the sand.

An artist in the shackles of the machine, I wonder if the apathy can change me into a walking number. Speak loud and strong before the house of card crumbles down on you too, the face of a myth staring back at you and laughing.

Yet thrust on we must, hold the lamplights higher and raise a glass to those we’ve lost through the war of articulation. Ignite the furnace within me once more. Lift up the voices of the collective electric body and soon our wet lips can drink in the creative again.

Monster Times

Living in the monster times,
we learned to creep with hostile vanity,
leaving the building block bones of industry
and lying to the suits on the thirty-first floor,
to aid our beauty sleep.

Yet in the darkness,
we slip in and out of bedrooms,
laterns awakened,
we voodoo our sins out the body,
into the river and cleanse away
what we’ve seen.

Lately I’ve nowhere to hide,
nightmares during the waking hours,
I stay haunted even in the unexpected
corners of the dollhouse.

Where in wonderland are we now?
In the deep sleepwalking cracks in the earth,
we sink down to see the fires of the Symbolic Order,
burning bright.

For those who wander

Seeking to wander,
a grimace of violence
dripped from our lips
and we spat out our
traffic disturbances
and those small razor-edged pieces that
remind us of the dark ages.

Set in stone,
the faces of the dead
writhe in agony
over the fresh graves
of the newborns.

Why stammer into darkness?
The voices murmur
and howl in the moonlight, urging us on.
We gave away our perfection
to bask in glorious mistakes.
Humanity shone through
the vapid tempests,
our painful histories.
The desert is alone.
Even so, we must ride together.

Dance out the Droid

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow to the prophetic visions of the chaotic collective astral plane, a reality-eating glorious monster. Madness lighting our way through this lower hell plane we are forced to walk, this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and plead that the rain will seep through us, making us whole again and then standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the suffering magicians of our day. Embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 


Red flags burning,
I awoke to the sounds
of fireworks going off in the church
of Mary's angel.

In the evenings,
the river ran up to meet me
and I floated,
face first,
downstream during
the time of twilight's hunting season.

Heaven scoffs at the matchmaker,
teeth marks left on the stove by the monster,
I snuck in the backdoor  of hell
to return my costume,
from the burning masquerade held on saturday night.
The devil's horns are raised to the sky
as he counts backward from Scorpio.

Echos in the Mirror

Echoes in the Mirror

Echo me back to a hallowed place,
some sacred safe-house
on the rough road to Armageddon.
I followed the rabbit hole down to drown in
linear identity:
Put me in a box and frame it,
put me in a box and frame it,
or shame me til I cave in on myself
and box myself up,
pretending that this was my idea.
Was there a soft shape to snuggle close,
a sound of winter that holds our delicate fibers together?

I was flung to the floor
when the tempest waltzed
through the open window.
We all sacrifice a few specks of soul
to the faces that stand in the sun,
glittered and deafening,
we bow to our plastic dead doll idols,
cheers from the crowds resound on the red carpet
as we smile the smiles of the shadowed and damned.

Dance in the heart of the heathen,
we shackle our masks on to our faces in the fires of hell.
After lunch with the stock market profiteers,
we make a mess of the kitchen,
tables turned over,
coffee pot stands on its head
dripping down the cabinets,
staining the rug,
glasses broken on the floor
looking like diamonds:
witness our liberation from the sunken skull generation.

Together we pant through our abuses,
our broken bones and bruised faces.
Give me a method of deliverance,
a way to understand the tormented self,
without breathing too heavy,
giving away my place of hiding.
Then without warning,
the reflection in the mirror starts talking back.

For the time I dreamt aloud

The hysteric women, for-seeing the darkness through the ice storm that swept across the western plains in mid-January, cry out in warning and run into on-coming traffic. Voiceless faces tighten around the jaw line at the sight of the sunset collision with the earth. I sat and then paced, and thought and sat and paced again under the whirling of the ceiling fan who whispers that I’m no good for this task, this undertaking of the undertaker. Coffin size notwithstanding, I open up that sealed casket door and step through the light misting rain and find myself with a desire to soak into the earth, to melt inside of the underworld furnaces that are just being lit again for a season of treating the mystics.

Deny the dream of death, the ghost repeats herself in the mirror, standing naked with the bloodstained faced mannequins who, draped in filthy finery, whisper that chaos is riding the eastern wind back towards home. I became the nightingale, the pirated profit of the caged birds singing the blues through the bars of a system that creates only wincing dead, hallucinations of moaning bodies as they drift through days of sleepwalking.

The vampires awoke from centuries of slumber to return to their thrones of fated serpents’ heads which hold our puppet strings while they reload the cyborg systems. We came from dust and yet there seems to be a transformation into cogs and wheels, mainframes lifted up as the idols of an age which dies with its robot arms crossed on its chest.

Melting Point

Leave me standing
at the alter,
white dress phantom,
holding a picket sign
and a screwdriver.

The "normal" scent
of a concrete world
makes me nauseous.
Drape me instead,
a body caressed
in a dewed forest
who's breathing gently.

Sanity is the silent venom.
Raise our poisoned tongues
to the angel.
Act out chaos,
when the world twists and tumbles
with a melting point of inferno.

Salvation's One Night Stand

Wicked night,
come escape with me into shadows of the devil
dancing on piano keys.
I seek out the overtures of revolt,
high pitches and walking bass notes
plunge us forward into evenings
spent with red eyed insomniacs and the
bartenders of the fifth dimension.
This dull silence,
this plagued despair,
hung me upside down from my roof
and let all the blood rush to my brain
with no persuasion necessary.

I wanted to be pressed up against a wall,
feel the pulsing of another,
riding through the nighttime.
Through the red morning,
we wound together
and shouted electric to the heavens,
who let us sit in and stay awhile.

Let the rain come in through my voice,
give us a stampede legend to travel along
dirt roads alone,
your hand on your knife,
just in case the mountain starts to move.
I surrender to the house of mirrors,
feeling the slither of salvation
who stops off at the corner pub
to smoke four packs of cigarettes
and drink a bottle and a half of whiskey.

Drinking in the Moonshine

            Ah monster, I’ve found you again: alive alice and hungry. I embodied all characters around me: pop pulp, culture through a looking glass circus, I watch the dances play before me with their twisted features, small and large colors over the rainbow, and then I take on their faces, manners and places. We can step into someone’s very veins and get lost in another person for awhile. I seethe back to life, awakened like a frozen stone Vulcan waiting once again for the fires that burned before him inside the mind seeking night skies with moons falling. I am not one to be eaten lightly. I will rise from this stretcher, this carnaged plane. I scan the dead and try to hold their last breaths in my hands. I hear you, in the dark, your cries for fear of the earth’s large enough mouth to swallow you.
            I opened my throat wide, wet from drinking in the moonshine and ran back into the forest for cover. The plagues are coming once again with oil as we drink, raping the shamans of our ages, genocide we watch and allow in countries of our brethren: each act of violence was leaving all of us to bleed, don’t you see that? I retch up the violence that sits outside of my very window, blood spills down the trees and sinks back into the earth. I am coughing up the venom that attacks the airwaves, the media living us a lie.
            The sisters shifted me into creation making love to the air around her, weaving in between the breezes, she dances to remember who she is when the sky turns to light again. the ghosts in the hallway like to knock on my door with an impatient hand. We know you’re in there. Mentioning the dead always causes a morose silence and shifting eyes, fingers reach for something to entangle themselves with. We must muse out among the crowd and make resounding voices. 
            Unplug the machinery attached to you with strings, doll’s house living must no longer get blood pumping and molding out into something pre-processed and manicured to glint in the light just right, ah yes the shine of capitalism. 

a strange vision I had: Alice meets a breathing plant

As Alice turned to the door that said “do not enter”, she realized that she may be only one who would dare to cross its threshold and land in some unknown territory that could take her farther and deeper than she had even expected on this particular journey. The mad hatter winks at the teacup because he seems to think that it’s talking to him in clinks and clatters, only noise to the untainted ear. He remembers a time when he was a vibrant vigilante and now he felt as if the twinkle in his eye had become smoky and left him for another lover. Regardless, the door was opened, and Alice and hatter walked hand and hand through this new vision of someone else’s imagination and reality all twisted into pieces of a puzzle that makes itself angry for the want to be forever scattered on the table, never to be put back together again: chaos was serenity for some.
            Behind this doorframe number three is a large (filling up the room with its delicate features) breathing fern of some specific species as out yet undefined. In and out the plant breathes and seems to shake a little from weeping at being all alone in a room without windows through which she could’ve see the sun and felt its warmth on her outstretched fingers. Alice gathers her courage and deepening curiosity and steps forward to speak. “Why all this sighing and shaking dear plant, have you nothing to live for?” The plant says not a word for a very long and intense introspective moment but just breathes its troubled and heavy breaths and shakes for lack of anything else to do. “I am alone,” says the fern without warning. Alice sits down on the floor to conjure up some sort of solution to such a desperate problem as this. “Singing makes me feel less alone when I have despaired and that foggy isolation has come upon me,” says Alice. The fern seems to brighten and decides to give the vocal chords a test in that direction. She starts to hark out a melody so pure and infinite that a flock of birds from some outside corner source swoop in to join in harmony. The mad hatter stands in the corner and watches on at the scene, a tear falls from his eye to see the fern and his new friends unearthing new melodies together. 

Hazy Intuition

What can I say
but that the madness is driving me crazy.
I entered the machine,
and then spat her back out,
drinking venom for a living and
a bad habit or two to spare.
The coroner’s report proclaimed
that death was on the rise,
like locusts swarming around
those houses in Egypt
that ended in mother’s cries.

Our last battle,
sitting in my room,
between ashes and the radio,
still has me spinning,
wondering if love even can carry
all of this weight from the astral plane,
plummeting me into despair so deep
I can only see the bottom of my shoes.

The intuitions seemed hazy and forgetful,
though there will soon be
a change in the wind
and our bodies will emerge from the
marshes of New Orleans,
and we will dance together and through
the fire,
not feeling a thing.

Our prophets will come to us
through the mists of minds,
or even better we will become
our own goddamn prophets.
We are coming out of the dark,
high pitched euphoria and
and enlightened mayhem,
the earth raining from the sky,
sandpits overturning
to set their sights on the rain,
and the sphinx starts talking
in the old language,
ravens hissing in the new year.

Phoenix appears in the skies of the west,
there are stirrings under the ground,
armies of angels
that are mistaken for monsters,
form through time
and painful beauty,
eating up the blackholes of
money making war games
that will not stand for too much longer.

But the razor still scrapes against the steel
of death’s sinking boats
springing leaks and gasps for air,
you plunge into ice water and are sung
to sleep by the sirens of the red queen.
Muses hide their many masks
sometimes until drowning.
I caused the queen her crown.

The Marriage of cause and effect

On this solid space of ground,
I am hollowed and tainted beyond
any hope of the resurrection.
My brain slowed and slurred together,
I watch the pieces of myself
float away on the river.
Monster inside gasps for breath,
stifled under these walls,
the light drained from the moon
with a teaspoon,
the strange darkness calls me inside itself,
deeper to fall until tomorrow.
The mind haunts its own
walls and secret coves and spaces,
in a twisting and screeching soul,
twitching from skull poisoning.

I’m stuck in a blaze
of someone else’s glorified suicide,
the energies strained me into
a new form of being,
one that I didn’t recognize
in the mirror,
in the whorehouse for which we stand,
salute and deliver me
out of the dark colored glasses
and into a world of dancing
under cursed skies,
at least free to scream out in the night
to no one.

I’ve got to slither out of this character,
the sirens calling me with
wails and slimy hands,
blood drips down their faces as
tears form the forest behind my house.

The ghosts stagger in single line,
out of my closet
and stand next to my bed while I pretend
to be asleep,
feigning comfort and restful poise.
I felt split and defiant towards
the ends of pleasure and fortified walls
made of glass and glue.
The effect has left the cause standing at the alter.

Blood Bridges over Baghdad

Dreaming in the meantime,
she coughs and listens to the radio
that plays in her head.
Lifelines and muses come and go,
and in the television show,
bodies on display for bedtime companions.

I got a phone call from the reaper
wanting business advice.
Spurning the darkness,
I run into the forests and moors
of my homeland,
crickets and faeries
chirping in the distance
as we sing the songs of the whispering trees
at midday on a Thursday in june and july.

Though I heard the church chorus sing
from the bathroom,
I didn’t expect Jesus
to be sitting in the stall
next to mine,
smoking a cigarette,
and weeping for the beauty
that wafts through the vents-
unarmed verses of harmony,
into our veins it plummets,
changing our history.
Yet still, our blood bridges over Baghdad,
sniper eyes in the skies,
rockets raining down on civilians,
for the American dreams and beauty queens.

the wounds of the underground

Can I take you down to the trials of Corinth and Cancer?
Where the moon rests when she is tired,
and we,
the forgotten ones,
let our tears sink into the earth
with the hope that we can burst
through the mud and the rain,
a phoenix ablaze from its coffin,
a green stem pushed up through the ground,
as she gives a sigh of relief.

I stained the curtains in my room
with the blood of the ageless euphorics.
The pandemics of apathy and violence
raged through the crowds,
trampling each other at the stock market’s
bell toll and hoping to make it home for dinner,
with their suits still flapping in the breeze,
and their wives cooking lean cuisines
to help with the obesity problems of America.

Where are our soiled tongues
that lash out at even infants
who despair that the world is ending
and there is not a fucking thing we can do
but watch it burn.
Strike a match to your finger
and remember the wounds of the underground,
the artist’s curse to see the world
as a spinning wheel carousel that
wants to roll away from the circus freaks
and the lovers that make out in its arms.

I hang by a needlepoint,
a crucifix adorned to carry the weight
of our children's supposed sin?
There must be more than the fake fortuneteller’s voice,
over the radio,
thick and raspy with delight
that you don’t have a clue
you are giving up silver for popcorn kernels.

The Forecast of the time machine

I forgot the past and surged forward with darkness shot through me like an arrow grazing my left arm with a pinch and a trickle of blood. This cell, this cage, this mind- to shake free once again would be a pleasure. I am soul searching to find me in the mess of my masks that cluster on my floor when the forecast looked sinister. I find the more masks I take off, the faster they multiply in my periphery. I found my way through the labyrinth once again and follow that maze vision towards the entering gates of the underworld. I come up through the river and gaining speed, seeping into the veins of the trees I found a home to sleep in the daytime until the moon shadows my face once again.

Let us praise the demi-gods of production and industry, says the crowd, and she tries to tell her story through clenched teeth and barely breathing. I am on trial for the wrong reasons to the wrong answers completely, says Alice, through her red card’s prison. And she curtsies now to make sure to appease the red queen as of late because the mirror through which she must return looks sinister to her Alice self now, all warped and shifting when she walked up to it and tried to smile. Alice seemed crooked to herself in the current undercurrents of reverse psychology. And the mad hatter was her transport through and back in time. The lunar eclipse was as of yet to happen in wonderland and we are still waiting for the darkness to consume us again- the white tiles and figures on the chessboard giving off no reflection.

The looking glass flashes back to re-visit past lunar eclipses, the hallowed marks are inscriptions on the body, the churches owning their histories and giving in to the story of the tombs of former prophets that show us what they have seen, the fights fought, and we know that hard times come and go. Somehow we fight the battles and watch the blood shed and continue on. I suppose cause we must, someone must stand up to the tyrannies ahead and behind us. 

I account for the things, the weaponry, in my head that burst through like a dragon out of its egg. I shed tears as blood runs down innocent faces in a world that seems to drink it in and goad their hatred and fear on to their children, edge of a sword being sharpened. Though the pendulum ticks on, I look for the things that keep me on every cloud’s tipped silver shining through the sun and the fog until I wake up in the morning and put my clothes on for another day in this time machine. 

The War Horse

What is it like to be sitting in your room alone and trying to just figure out who you are and which script are we reading from now? The war horse once clawed hoves in the air dripping blood and ale as this anarchy fountain lifts its paws to the sky and blots out the sun, just for a moment. This feat and beast was then drowned slowly and is now a prancing pony in the travel circus that I may have been a part of in 1963 for a short time and that is the cat alongside a bag of wagon wheels or paint chips, tire irons, rusty talons, nails and tacks and so on.

The carpet now stands with her feet on the ceiling, speak bluntly kind sir and mind your manners. I sit now, calmly and write to you from a hole of a rabbit. The alligator shine’s his teeth on a razorblade while choosing his next victim- mass graves are the fashion of the time period. I hate a mockery of humanity that dresses us up fancy and leaves you feeling unveiled in the sun and slightly burning. Can you take me to the promised land?

Were there stunt doubles waiting in the wings for all our players and fortune soothsayers today and in the toady days to come: I can hear them from my open window tonight as they brave the trees in the dark earthen mounds of the backyard (a creature of a small variety but stout I assure you). The night can be a cruel asylum when I feel as if I’ve worked all within it’s slumber hours, and yet, don’t remembering the doing. Try to not speak out of turn or fifty hangings you must attend, wide eyes on a faceless and laughing crowd-the executioner wagers with the devil (or so I’ve heard) and gets his kicks from watching the dead man swing.

I hear the ringing of the watchtower bells even as I sit here, trying to get a silent peace in my head for once. I think madness is for the taking. I think bondage is time to be broken like the too many sets of dishes we have in our house just waiting to fly and split open with orgasm.

We, still the chained and downtrodden, must open our ears again to the beating of the earth-follow your brave snout, as it was and went on, wassailing till the end of the day. I see your sorrows painted on my walls like epigraphs and indeed tombstones hung from the catwalks on my ceiling. We fall like the tears on your face, again and again, and yet find the creative worth living for.

This interview is over for now, we continue on our journey through the slits in the blinds and the cracks in the hallway tile. I was a boy once afraid of lightening and then grew up, my head and hat through the rafters and was never heard from again. Until tomorrow then, the doctor calls for his nurse and uncovers his wounds; he falls to the floor dying from cultural stigmata, but the clock on his desk still wears a grin. 

A demonstration of channeling: Rihanna, Tom Waits, Coco Rosie, M.I.A, Kate Bush, and Lady Gaga

This is a poem that I just wrote while I was listening and then channeling the above artists.
The artists are in order and of listening and by paragraph through the poem.

Try to succumb to the pain and sex of the looking glass circus,
we sharpen our teeth and parade before a soul sucking animal.
Our eyes turn red from the strain,
and we whisper in the languages of old tongues,
our prisons to break out of,
we will,
and leave nary a leftover.
I can direct us if you will,
into the inferno and leave the light behind.
Cave in to the creature inside you,
bring your top hats and black evenings gowns,
and we shall prove our worthiness.
Crave to lean back and sit then to watch a dance spell out
the desires of the public.

Until we take the long road home,
we shall sit in bars with the pinstripe dolls,
drinking whiskey next to the cello player,
we travel through our masculinities at will
when the harsh glare is needed to make the crowd
shake their fits and cry out to the sky,

oh the flicking fighting we’ve seen in eyes that stare off
into other times and people’s sorrow leapt and wept on to one
as she has here in the lightening.
Scavengers we are to thrust forward
the heliums of older tempers and desires,
we kill each other so senseless as if falling into
an ocean to drown.
Death is outside my window
and wakes me up to go and look out
to meet him in the morning
as the sun sets.

They feed on our children
and starve our leaders into rebellion
with the beats of their anger upon us.
From once we came and now we
shall reclaim with a vengence
the lands that are ours and we re-visted
all our ghosts to haunt your houses.
Virus’s can not stop these mystic slithering
and Egyptian knowledge from earlier
relations with these characters,
the high goddess nods her head toward the moon
and the blood will be avenged,
one way or another.

The Flight of the Fathers
ended us up in the future of air,
we twisted in her circling canopy
and rose up to the four corners
of the Bermuda triange-
with its pyramid stretching up into our space.
Angels surveyed the skies and
fairyed away to see the silence that set before them.
Spice the water and give us past lives,
this forces us to recognize that we are all connected
in the divinity that splashes up around our ankles.

Can I get reflection back in the mirror?
Broken petals fell into my dreams
that dedicated their violence to your bidding.
I scream threw the ashes to watch for the signs of destruction.
The closet felt comforted to know
that the speaker of the house is here,
for once the bodies are alive and walking.
We drank together,
back in the day when we came a bit too early to the party,
our masks shine brightly in the candlelight and cast our shadows
tall and teething.

Kundalini rising: a poem

Kundalini rose up to the throat
and then gave birth to a new allegory.
As my mouth starts to water,
my eyes rolled back to the drive
to feel your energy on my tongue,
I kiss the top on your spine
and you start to breathe deep.
Can we dance together
in this astral chessboard ballroom?
Divine ourselves to a heist’s height
and we curve into each other
through space and long winters.

The tables are set
as the templar knights end the night
with a celebration.
A feast for the un-quested,
my mind melting on the radiator.
My road was clear up to the chapel,
through the underground,
I lay in mass array.

Dances in dark places,
thunder in the rain,
we sought after the graveyards
of America,
listening to the earth
you could hear the bones still shaking,
their spirits rose in the air,
and fell at my bedside.

there were witnesses in the fields,
the pyramids of the earth rising as
energy up a spine,
we sink into the ground
and prepare for the battle
worth true warriors of the metaphysical.
These pages will burn and we will be left
as black sheep in the wilderness.
Though many of us may deem the wild
to the chaos,
and I don’t blame them,
but the times still ticks by in that world too,
my fellow asylumed brethren.

Mind Control Barbie

Luckily I found an escape
from mind control Barbie
though it left me with scars
that I don’t quite remember.

Hair stands on end
as the strings attached
to our shoulders force us
to move along with the empire building machines.
Sticks and bricks taken to the slaughterhouse,
we must revolt from our formal intentions,
use our intuitions to tear our minds from the chaos reigning.

I spoke out in loudness and defining consequences,
we wake up and find ourselves
tied to the furniture:
our part to drone on for the interior decoration
of the mansion on the hill.
Darkness made our shadows come alive with feeling,
they may have Stockholm syndrome
but they are just festering
somewhere deep within
to strike out,
to stand and be counted
for the revolution of the insane and prophetic.

Buyers and sellers of human parts,
the consignment shop conspiracies
give us a reason to resist
the trickle down fashion-made mannequins
in their tight suits and tight minds:
ever willing us to buy and consume, buy and consume
until death’s door opens to let us in.
The profit came to life and stared you in the eye.

Restless angel,
come live in my wonderland
and we shall strike down upon the earth
a new meeting of insightful minds and human interests.

The Energy Monster's Playground

            I suppose I should speak clearly, even if for just a moment. This memoir is at a standstill with so much paraphernalia resting in my hindsight. I replay the nights of coughing depression and thoughts of suicide when I was in sixth grade and my friends were trying on those fashions that split the skies with the times. I slide in and out of melancholia due to the bloody visions, the memories that I can’t place as either mine or someone else’s: the dissociation of a girl just sitting in her room counting down the minutes until the sky falls. I wish there was a happy unending, but I don’t know what the future can see in me to stay up all night and wake me up from my moment of rest by the water tides rising.
            Can we cure the cancer that hunts us down? Staggering and in denial we shake our heads and walk towards the horizon until the sun goes down. Our gaits longer, our eyes wider as we hear the words of the incurable diseases. Mad hatters, we are made from the fires and ices of the new dawn when the witching hours prove themselves worthy of a quiet moment’s meditation and the laser surgeries are found unnecessary.
            I want to change, morph into the energy monster that paces impatiently in my head waiting for the right moment to unleash its power from within: talons sharpening, teeth wide and grinding together. As corporations flood with enemies, as the masses accept the way things are with their skulls distorted and contorted into the mind asylums of the liquor power anti-prophets. I listen to my playlists and channel their inhabitants, the collective consciousness was a like beacon lamppost in the all encompassing and ever thickening night of the astral plane. It seemed as if I dead ended my own identity so as to flirt out through the genders and identities that I found empathy within, and I did love to have the scenes played before me, your actions and the unconscious desires were the themes that I rendered the most attention. I watch bodies tense and shake off their frustrations, interrelations, and try to hide the sadness that seeps through eyes the most when you sit and listen to someone with your eyes open to their possibilities.
            Sneak past the mundane human reactions and beneath this earthen crusty surface, there was a myriad of aesthetics and in the dark regions of the soul there was yet more fuel for the dangerous of our species. The mediums that I come to learn from and exercise those ethereal senses are looked at as the court jesters of our time. Where are our believers and artists that hunt inwards to find and connect with the sprits of the others in the abyss that edges on madness and equilibrium.
            I desire a quantum and religious dissonance, a space to unlock our chains of certain insanity verdicts by our forefathers and the Freudian latex industries of medication and Oedipus. I find these psycho-hyper publications of making anyone that is non-forming out to be a natural disaster to our society totally unnecessary and irreverent. Embracing our oddities, our inconsistencies, our brainwashing banter, we arrive at the core of our destruction: be watchful, for our puppet master is changing into a new sort of machine. 

The Religion of Robotics

Headaches anonymous meetings continue regardless of the temper tantrum weather that crashes down on our heads the size of pinwheels. I have grown silent as of late due to the need to communicate through micro-expressions and folly furniture. Was there a grief that can be risen above: destroyed by some grandiose leisure or flammable log cabins in the woods when you were nine and killed your first rabbit for dinner and you cried once the deed was done and the limp flesh sizzled while roasting on the spit. Guilt seethes to conquer our virtues that we count on our fingers, one at a time, to make sure it was worth it to wake up this warn down body in the middle of the afternoon.

I was so angry at the world for delving me deep and cutting me short with scissors that I shrunk to the size of a virus and left the earth for a time to contemplate the angels falling and the vast canyons under the ocean. The brilliance of the moonlight glistens the water awake and as she sets, her mouth gently kisses the everglades’ edges until tomorrow. We all mood swing to the beat of a capitalist psychoanalysis drum- as it is in constant thumping out of what we are to want to buy, need to buy, must have to survive: cosmetics and feelings of cool and that the world is driving itself insane.

We arrive with the weather to the tollbooth of insincerity and found that all of us had our lies to keep, our secrets to furrow deep in the base of the brain, the diseases we have yet to catch and craft the spells of the witch hunters that betrayed their own kin to the policed thought taverns and tourniquets. Mass graves drift in and out of sleep and screaming redemption to a god that seems to be busy unlearning the mechanics of our human-machine sex appeal as we transition to the religion of robotics.

Counting the human to ghost cross-overs as I toss and toss again, waiting to notice the blood dripping from your eyes and the spider in your skull. The artists cater to no man and then unknown they escape the pilgrimage to the intersection of sell-out and sanctuary. To not create would be a sin huge enough for my desperate need for confession.

I raced the hare and found him sleazy and confrontational. And I awoke from my dream to go to the unmarked grave tribunal. The war crimes, dirty rhymes, pick-up lines and scarlet women dance just out of eyesight once the night takes us back in time to see our history unfold like a snake sheds its skin. I am plagued by the bloodthirsty; the medicine man shuffles into town and could save the world though the masses see a revolution as a waste of time and money. But what is still left unknown is that if we are the souls of intervention, when can our chorus begin?

Hot Skin: part man and monster

Naked skin rakes across hot irons, we are branded with the heard of mass hysteria and frustration. I put my face down to the earth’s edge and desperately strive to cry out against the slithering buzzing of the hoards of drones bulleting their way through the air. Why not just give up and join the chorus of despair that winks in my ear when then sun goes down. It’s hard to say. Wearily I stand at my post while the jury commits me, again and again, to my place in this holding cell. The ceiling of sky is falling and all you can do is stare and nod your heads.

 I have had turmoil and fog, to be sure, but what would you have me do? The priests who conduct the suicide rites are starting to get hungry. I have no prayer loud enough to pierce the sky and end the night. Forsaken keeps me busy enough to keep my mouth shut. However, I have reached a segue. To hold you up, to keep my masks up to just barely stay alive is too much headache and nausea. I feel the fall is longer and dimmer with each trip along the forest way. My eyes are heavy with chaos and responsibility. You must take me as I am: part man and monster. 

I chose the graveyard shift

            The persistence of the muse inspires me, my friends and partially counterparts, to write you from some distant hole in a prison cell wall where I eat my last meal. The cold wind runs through my veins as I struggle to stay awake another hour. Level with the lover affairs and the sainted hares that travel you downward to the urges of the crowds.
I can linger only for a moment to watch the guillotine carry you away, a witch burning on a stake too I could imagine. So many lost and forgotten, the blade cuts the skin and I repeat her sad eyes in the mirror. Fortnights from now, the seas higher and luminescent, the trees baying out their mourning songs as we roll and toss through the thickness of the liquid air.
Float on, in embrace with me then for a moment and creep the night away with a touch and song to sway to. Enter through the night inside me and we share the secrets of the dark in unison. We crave then the shaman beats of trance and rhythm inter-wired through your bloodstream, I weave in and out. I can sleep another day. Let tonight be a touch of ember.
Inferno baby, we awake the medieval magic that bellows beneath the surface of the earth and just under your skin. Warm throat pulsing, we dance the trauma out: killings in the street, drop dead ultrasounds. We beat out the floor with our feet: bruising raped women cry out, battered children, overdoses on drugs of the wizard on that yellow brick road. I push key to black key to convince myself that there is a reason to write and to shake and break open. Up and out we go and down into another rabbit hole. Find a way to find the blue in the sky when you wake up in the morning worth all of the bones in the collective closet. I chose the graveyard shift. 

The Witch Doctor

            Mounted coffin, we perfect our deaths and cynicisms whilst losing seconds that tick by- head to the cog, instead of our insides held out in the open. I wondered why the ceremony? We wild out the flame too quickly and end up lingering to smell only the smoke that’s left to remind us of our senses. Own your collector, says the imaginational witch doctor as you pay your debts to the mariner. What serpents are these that we are passing around, hand over hand, the candle lit circles that rest inside the capital? Their bite is more sadistic than usual, I think to myself as I can only see my shadow in the reflection as of late.
            Were we not meant to be mad as hatters, picking up sticks and sights of the lumination lucifers? We cater inside, to you- the great unknown audience. Sex performs her dance in front of you while I sit behind you and kiss your neck. Indeed we dip into the delusion as to come up more silent and prophetic than when we began. This is not just a joker’s ride, my friends, we are changed for it and there must be for a purpose- all this pain.
            With sensation and strangers on either side of the pendulum, I swing- forgotten blackbird on a fishhook. I suppose someone chose vampire elite energies to show me in dreams, with heightened sense, the way through this darkness of an underworld, caring only to make it through each night, each doll’s fragmented smile, each channeled mystic eye through which I saw your renegade disparity.
            Red lips bruise the night and left her hungry for another day to change the longitudes and latitudes of our current “take no prisoners” routine. Deep in deluge, we with stretched out arms try to come back to the surface of the water for another heavy breath. I fear the coming of the reaper whose got one ear to the sky and the coming of winged myths and the other ear to the ground- I hear the rumbling of a new army of crusaders as they march in my sleep. What we need is a crop circle knight, says the crowd, a rugged crossed hangman who will indeed go to death for the people century after century. The collective conscious realms of my brain twitch at each other as if to say: where is the grace and variety of death and disobedience to the same checkmate as the game before?
            Main themed resistance was inevitably corporate co-option. We need a new stream of collective consciousness. Been there and here and nowhere and earthen landscapes are beautiful in the fall time but in separate spaces I entreat more and more so I can maybe figure this out. A stream of insincerity and dark powered alchemy still pulses through me with that dark boy shake and shutter, a dialect of isolation and further from sane than my ancestors would want I would guess. A father and hierophant figure in the ground, a boy version of myself brother with brain cancer creeping through his cells- spread out like a spider.
            Asylumed in my swirling astral body, I pray for sanctuary and found there was no such thing. Tantrums in my sleepless heart: fire fights dancing headless in my foresight. So, trembling in the mosh pit, I will rise to this occasion to toast a glass, crown a new destiny, forge through the bogs and the undergrounds of New Orleans and the madder the hatter, the better. 

the festival of fools and graphic novels

The festival of fools and graphic novels is just starting as you arrive at our next chapter. We enter in to our mad house with a grin and stilettos, ribbon twist up thighs and linger close to the skirt that she wears when she goes out. Lucifer and his vikings (before the fall) lead the pathway to the holy ghost who is burning himself alive again as he watches this particular circus go through the towns and cities of our beloved past and present again to be the future soon.

The jokers kept the place tidy while you were away and their black coats and white gloves leave us remembering their faces that light up the mirrors on the other side once and awhile. We stare in and through them and don’t know how this trick is done.

The carpet lays out a red assembly line through the curves and passageways of this old slump of a building found on the corner of vanish and wicked. We make ends meet inside of us and collect you for the awakening. These disembodied hands dancing through the air like birds as we look up to the cathedral like foyer.

Rooms of labyrinth mirror lands we walk through and see with awake eyes all of our various characters and the fornicators and the suicide makers and the hanged man swings through the mirrors we are running from unless you can stand there and stay still.

Angels call us to elemental forecasts and we are swept up and carried through the quick sands that waterfall through this room of only keyholes. Where green and purple look like different colors entirely and the entities snicker at the duller of the masses that have an understanding that one gets out alive, one wakes up from this dream.

Once we do wake up from this sensory overload, our voices soften and we huddle together for fear of falling. The tower of this crafty illumination carried us away from angry stock marketers with their hung faces and slips of shots of whiskey for whom those bells toll their deafening secrets of the traitors and traders. I lost my way among the throng and end up falling asleep ever so stealthily in the ivy-covered moors just inside our fun house to wake in the morning and wonder if it was all an encouraged nightmare.

Yes, there is a monster

            On eves of the hallowed, the lady fair walks out of her red doorframe and into the night with a cup of coco. Pumpkin heads on stakes with candles inside that give the impression of glow and stare as she lifts off her heals and peels out to the moon as if the ground would never be enough for her in a world in which she was destined to pretend that she was dirt bound. Creation took flight and thus she was able to see beyond the barriers of weight and gravity and seemed to receive a peace that the earth could not give her on nights when she became so forlorn that she wanted to lay down on the floor and be sucked into the under planes for a time.
            My God, My God. Who am I and where do I fit into this realm that stretches me shallow and rips me into pieces for the “common good”. I must choose to be derailed, disinclined to see the material as the majestic. Let us softly caress in the deep moments of prophet serving and diamonds could be forgotten once their sheen dulls and duels for our attention.
            Who is he that looks restless back at me in the mirror when I am angry and surging to change the defeat and surrender all that I see in the world of the real. I come from time warps and chastised brethren that falter with each new idea of empathy and mischievous undertaking. To directly pursue the phantoms that float in and out of my periphery cackling and shaking their fists with smirk and purpose. I sweat eagerly to find ways in which to be truly alone when I am not in the presence of another human form. The afterlife and the dimensional realms that encircle us are hard to quiet once they break the barrier with you one day when you are sitting drinking coffee and listening to what have you done when the nightmares start to get worse for the wear and wear me out in the nighttime when really I want to close my eyes and forget the visions that flash through my mind.
            Fight force with passion creativity and Armageddon is coming to sweep us off of our carpet stains and mail orders into a setting of warlords and the twilight monsters of the molten earth. Is there doubt in my mind that life is supposed to good, that people don’t die before they are ready, that as we sit and spit we are all dying and some unfairly so.
            To conclude this delusion of severance from the tiger’s eye and all these fine vibrating spaces around us, we twirl fortunate that these frail bodies do give us a place to sleep for the night. I end up in a rabbit hole regardless of what time it is anywhere. It would seem as if that is my purpose and I habit it as well I can. The fervor in my voice would have made you believe I was an animal of wit and magic maybe but I don’t know for sure. I seem uncertain of myself with all masks aside and put on the bathroom shower curtain to draw conclusions and dry for a spell. I am misanthropic fatal as seen by my performative audience.
            Channeling to the whole is difficult to judge by in the terms of through the white columned hallways and byways of international skepticism. Lying only became me when I was a monkey in the tree outside my neighbors’ house maybe on some Wednesday night when I didn’t have anything else to do. Yes, there is a monster of sorts that hides lonely and eager to get some stage presence in our drama for today, but I don’t let him out often in circumstances of the vile we drink out of.
            Where is our conference room in which I could read this out loud and explain- or demanded to try at least to whisper in the minds of the folk I live around. It was an odd assortment of discipline and slippery moonshine. Twas Brillig and so forth, and I was humbled by your presence in our house again. Was there anything I can get you? A piece of my mind to munch on casually or a scene from the hole in the ground... I was too shy to simply say what I mean and confront you in the mirror, dear players and characters of my mind infinite set in my brain that seemed more confusing than when I started this writing endeavor. 

Masked Ball beyond the mirror: the mad house performed

The mad house performed for tonight is an insanity masked ball with full plumage and feathers falling slowly from the rafters: dead doves screech aching to the chessboard floor though, through the deep transistor dancing, no one notices. We are all glimmer and gold, reckoning to each other in a waltz made for magic lanterns and forest forgetting. The masses dance to the tune of the puppet king sitting on the throne at the forefront of the room: masked suffocated doll in its own dollhouse that we wreck back to every night for we didn’t seem to have another option.

I know there is always a choice if you are aware of the spoon fed to your lips and you stand and walk out of the front door into the dark-if you can run faster than a whisper. Though we retch of vanity, our costs for devotion seems lower on the totem pole in the middle of the room than seemed worthy of our talents.

Etchings of unborn languages and tribes of mystics that have fell to co-option and death to the heretic: we burn at the stake for the wings of the leviathan are ever growing and wrapping us close to their sides. The Judas Complex came drifting through the ballroom like a cold chill from an open window set to face the stormy sea that brought us here on waves of tribulation and apathy.

The mad hatter stands in shadow and watches these religious rites performed through disease and disguise: nothing is as it seems in the halls of the mountain kings. I never wake fully from the strings and serenades of the amercian dream of pop pulp and fruit shavings left on the kitchen counter and forlorn. Hatter wails the call of the drinking dawn: arise and wake to the fullest extent of your being. We, caged without bars in our “pleasant little dream and fancy” we are told over and over through the deep voices of the fear of a nation. All is false and fair in the ride of the carnal and carnivale.

Spring forth with reckless passion and dissonance, you lionesse of sex magic and complex cognition. Once your mouth open and letting the bats fly out of your tongue and the ecstasy flows unfulfilled through your mainstream- there is no turning back for the wondering innately insane.

I relish at the art of manliness and mayhem and murdering epitaphs that resort us to one function of the Capital and heads of state. The heavens are burning and I can feel the ash on my skin as I watch the passion stifled and the masses end up sucking on a rat’s tail thinking it was sugar cane. When will we learn, my company of counterfeits, that pain of one is pain of all.

My antics and rhetorical statements seemed unaltered by the alters set up around this room of clowns
staring. I twitch to the idea of control of the monster inside me- tamed and tortured defeat, I may rest for a moment though my eyes sink in deeper unto themselves with every staggered breath. Words fall and fail to complete me, to explain the bloody horse chains that keep our heads down to the floor, our 
forseen purpose to step one sole ahead of another and leeching our souls out to the stock market. We thus so distracted by pain that we forget to look behind us and witness the man holding our reigns, teething on our energies. Nuance and nausea woke me with a gasp and shutter. Revolt. Spit fire. Regain consciousness and awaken. 

We Delve into Insanity with the Cheshire Cat

We are back on schedule again says the warm and fuzzy Cheshire cat with a grin and Alice’s arms are long and she has grown three times her size again and she is just not used to it. What a metaphysical cave this is? As I wander and weep through shades of grey waters with one hand on my thigh and the other on my hip, I sit in shaman style and akin myself back to where we begain our first anthems and wounderings and wombs of the Netherlands on a picnic in July.

The universe opens up to me like a fate muse of the resistance to start a spark of the infinite in you. I sit raven, worrying about you so much that I cannot help but cry and hope you will become like the willows in my sleep. Kept above ground hurts the eyes when you are in the dark my dears, in the underland. Hollow forms keep constantly consonant and wrathing to the machine and kept secret by the seductive.

I ate the fruit again and rose up and did my best to remember the ones who haven’t survived the up stream flow of life. We must carry our dead in our memory more to smile in the act of remembering the beauty of true spirits who have touched us in moments that ember us along. The fire may be beat out of us but rise again the glories- we seize through ice.

The hierophant does not know what to say about all of this. The griffin is tangled in the dawn and the turtle seems upside down as of late. No dear matter though, we carry marry on and money and forget for a minute that there is no distance whatsoever in between me writing this with all characters present and the reader staring at the page, the screen, the scribes dictates only something higher than the soul sitting on a bed near Carnegie Melon or Tom Waits, Gnarls Barkley, and Lady Gaga. Rough everglade land now coming towards us with increasing velocity and towards the equator rabbit hole we go.

There was a time that I floated, mid trance and a trace of lace caddy lingerie. I sense the faces around me drawn and now stiffening. Prizes and so thought wins became blemished and unforgiving. But we succumbed to the taints of the world and then laughed again later on. There are irovies to twinkle and minor notes to play in times for candles and sex liquor. Maze match me in heaven and hell, unbound by the restrictions of flowing transience and perfumed anarchy.

I stand no more in the rain until another shadow night in which we delve into insanity. There is a presence that presents itself in insanity that can be as common as a feather found on the ground while you were walking down the park bench when you were ten. The mind loops us back and forth in so many clockwise directions that it’s delirious after a time. So much ticking backward into the future is needed.

We cabaret theatre and save each other from the rashness of reality and its commonplace violence with real inquisitions. The grin and grimace came lightly into my window and I spoke to our Cheshire- for which army are you for then: faint or follow? Twilight formed a smile around her face and back again to the bottom of her spine where it stayed and gave her great pleasure through the night.

Untold horrors of the Knights Templar

The eyes awoke and saw the pyre fumes raise the city up around them. Clash the metaphysics of what you believe with the amens of your ancestors as I swiftly react (with a rise of my mind off the pavement) to the pitchfork masses that swarm through the marshes on the seventh day and rape the women so as to bring rains down on the crop fields in their hometown of nowhere. Whatever the prize for redemption, there is no hole deep enough, no trench long enough, no riverbed wide enough to save the monkeys from their mayhem.

I watched from the star-crossed moors of the main land where most of the battles took place in the medieval ages of the Viking warriors and wisdom trees that speak in tongues that no man alive can understand or so they say with their lips crossed and their fits pumping to curse the all night vigils of prayer and foster children. The violence reigns down on the plantations and cremations of innocents, born to a world that spat them back out and walked among them as if god itself gave one people permission to harness another.

The voodoo kings sit in their temples and reach for their cauldrons with cattails surrounding the base of their skills and perceived knowledge from the crows that used to mourn the living and the dead. Vampire calls were surrounded in the twilight by mists and wakings of the undead mannequins with their legs in a tangle of one another and a gift from the Magus.

I felt comfortable here among the medium talents and frost covered muses of Babylon. On a number of occasions the spirits that are unsettled in their new ethers talk in quiet harshness, fast and repeating, they seem to recite all of their past battle wounds and ship wrecked fantasies unfulfilled. I try to keep one ear open to the living that are descended from princes of the riptide, one ear open to the dead and resurrected, and then my mind is free to wonder upon cobblestone sidewalks in London, prisons of traitors and tyrants to the queen, and untold horrors of the Knights Templar. Each story that is believed to be the truth stuck to my skin like tic tak toe on the hottest day of the summer. I never sleep alone. 

Controlled Virus

The government sent shock waves
through the system: tubes on a chain
around the Legion’s neck.
Cancer seemed not to be self-taught,
but was contagious among our children
and light warmers- thick blood was thinned
to prove a point to the FDA
and to cover up the data of the microwave weaponry age
which was made in the amount of time
it took me to write down my protest,
squeezing anthems out of a hurricane.
I blaspheme my heritage even before I wake up
from a dazed and drained sleepwalking.
We are sitting in our lawn chairs,
smoking cigarettes to cover the smell
of morphine drips and drunks and the cataracts
that constricted the brain waves
and made us wither in the noonday sun.
Pain made me thirsty to awaken the old apothecary smells and souls,
the alchemical beings that can sing out and stand us still.
Learning again from silence and begging serenity and clairvoyance,
I match the pitch of the clockmaker,
turned my head to the icicles losing their battles
and sighing with deep and dark resonance.
Catch fire to the tumors of the ages,
these omniscient dangers and religions
grasping bloody hands to our skirts and shorts,
yelling their deliverance fake prophecies
and hunting us down-one dove at a time.
The serpent licks his teeth again and smiles
as the audience rushes to the back of the auditorium.
The services shall begin once the clock strikes his master:
only a matter of time and the mind to awake
until the slave revolts against the his sovereign. 

The Game of Bones

Was it so wrong to carry the thoughts of holocausts around with you- never to forget lives lost in the name of control and intervention. The breath of the beast is on the face of the personality that is at the back of my head, following like the rats to the piper. This cancer made amends with the government and then made us stop and stand naked under the moon, thrashing and cursing the skies out of which we came.

Would you have me for a late lunch snack and justify the means through the eye of a pinball machine? I think so, if you can catch this nightingale undertow as I ebb and flow through your skin and out of the window in the back of your mouth- resistant to the linear thoughts that pattern my house in the daytime.

I sought after ghost stories and galaxies of endorphins, pining for their markers in the horizons abroad and south for the spring and the summer. It’s too hot here for thinking so I will march to the drum you left in my closet, for a faint fleeting moment, and then pick up the game of bones that we were waltzing with to the tune from the firefighters guild in the circus ring.

Forked- I was forgotten and lip synced away into the bowels of rapid hounds that bite the ankles of their loved ones to metaphor a scene from my dreams last night. Could I have written all these signals wrong? Tainted came the fall of my intellect and all that remains in spitting verses of cerebellum madness. 

Anarchy in Wonderland

            Anarchy In Wonderland:
Come through clearly and without reservation: the mad hatter is rising up with an army of nations and quanderings. The power of all the exploding suns and of the following generations continue to repeat the same rhetoric, the same hollow rites acted out in the asylum of the joker. Fire mouth breathing haunted this hatter so desperately that with all conditions considered, she decides that he must rise to the revolution, change the turns in the tides of complacent innocence and perversions of our liquid nature.

Where will the cost come from? all this violence and deceit comes zipping in through the electrical wires of the houses on my street, on yours. Defiance in the eye of the alligator, tirades of triad myths come knocking hard on my door asking for answers. Immortal we feel flesh of the labyrinth, molded together maybe or not we can stand the strain. The virus comes in waves across the side of my face, a shadow over the moon.

Thus the correspondents from the scarab beetles give way to the power play politics of the ancients, valley of the kings and wanton wombs tried to keep from birthing me in all my forms that came from the cloud cover, yet I still dug in deep to shake the pyramids to freedom. They will dance again among the constellations and we can parade though light becomes strong and mirrors are multiplied to beauty and enlightenment. Make way for the candle holders- rather than the candles for their impotence and surrender.

Doom and grit, we still choose to stay in one place, one mental state- Im fucking done with that. Maybe astral screaming is people struggling out of the coma of trauma of the collective and individual. Monday Modern Day Resistance is our phase and cause because hell is over, let us choose to shutter these good prophets out into the lake on the moon-ages ago. Guns and poison are loaded into the brains of the masses and I will not stand for this much longer. Wake up Alice in Wonderlanders: Mannequins walking their routes nine to five, in a subway station in London and in Washington.

I struggle, I feel to make you understand the direness of this situation. Oil is the new known throat of the ocean. Blood drips down all of our walls if you are looking carefully.
Change is coming- even if you aren’t ready for it, drums are beating to a new march within a growing population. We are getting angry. An abused eye turns away, and we pretend not to notice? Where is our empathy, pressed the mad hatter, forgetting we are the old languages of the ravens, the spirit can dance regardless of its position- out of the body, "get thee to a nunnery"- I guess some would say.

I take blame only for the madness of the hatter. I said it before and I will say it more fervently throughout. These questions and needs hanging over my head are like the keys I type, punctured and without remorse. 

Nightmares and Travel

the surging red rose anger smoothes through me and I feel uninvited to my own funeral. the sand was quick and unappetizing and I tried to shut my eyes from my own panic glass ceiling. I can think but only unofficially as a guard of the storm visions came sweeping up through the cracks in the stone floor that drips just twilight when you aren’t looking.

Attack the giver of blood that we were told was just wine with a bit of a human after taste. Don’t cross my bad day with your glossy sheen, your enemies are not mine to hunt down and eat for breakfast. I was tied to the ceiling fan and no one seemed to care to remember that my place was underground. I miss it there, the dim lighting and a cup of coffee to steady my senses.

Lift up the magnetism for an instant and you realize that I am just teething to scream out, to release some of the tension that pounded my head and gave me pain in my nightmares and travels to unique pleasures and circumstances. Villain of my mighty sword, I struck you down in forging a new mudslide through the desert. I distract myself from my own purpose though I can’t know where to go from here.

Temptation was my alley cat exterior. I was made for company of a darker side than you seemed to know even though you claim to know my insides caving in on walls of my room. I think you might’ve known me well in these times of crop circle deaths and skeleton tap dancing on the top of my head. Come from the closet and look my body up and down- with a smile, I exorcize you wide open so that you can see the moon soothing your burns and pressure points.

My mind was wild and ended up too much for the people who saw me in shopping malls and restaurants where I was only served water without a glass and a fake i.d. so that I could get into the party that I wasn’t invited to go to in the first place. I embodied the tortured spirit, the dying mythos of divinity. An art lost in the torrent of war and wind.

No psycho-bible bullshit can get me out of this hole in which I can only feel that there is ink drowning me in my own mind, over and over again until I am unconscious from this rape and take culture in which so many of us find it safe to hide.

My heart can’t be struck down, taken under to be alive for what you want or you need. No more unearthened secrets that taunt my psychic emotional despondence. Broken dove hanged as an example to other freedom winged mammals that death is coming faster for some then for others and I hate to watch the camera lense close. We give in with one last sigh and a wish that I had more morbid time to delve into the abyss that this world brings to my bedroom every morning. 

the mad hatter awoke from the same dream

The mad hatter awoke from the same dream again with a shake and a shouting to the rafters- eastern and northern dimensions unseen by most everyone. The fortune of the house of cards looks fragile to say the best, and she worried that the dream would come true- sooner than later. Beasts hide only for a time in the depths of the darkness before curiosity perfumed animal hostess- the wooded glen and moors of a time without capital and recompense. We shall be forced to unhinge together or to fall to the frail and the holy grail matters- a hat of a whole different kindred candle.

Given pills to swallow, hard and condescending, we write together in the pit- once only to look up at the sky and shine through the heaviness of the heavens. I choose my own earthen serendipity, luxury and fork tuning gave me the risen preconditioning to look the red queen in her one green eye and laugh.

Fireflies were instructed to lighten the mood and they surface to the top of my head and out of my third eye, leaving me room to grow, outstretched and forgetful. I killed a man in my sleep and the church held me: armory and chivalry so small that it can fit in the space between my fingers. The mission moon betrayed our chess game to the serpent harlequin who never smiles. Where am I in this space that breathes and only rests to heal the sickened children of the New Damned Dawn.

Eyes mourned the dark circles around them and crossed finders that dreams can play hide and seek long enough for me to drink once again with the monsters that mingle amongst us. The wonderland senses help my mind to make one more connection, one more vision, once more give and re-take in the midst of sirens and venom teeth that have driven me utterly mad with reason. Lightening was the patriarch head of unions and battlements closed down for construction. Listen to the fireworks deep underneath your insides.

There might have been a moment- a silence that slipped by- that I could’ve saved my beaten down brain. I missed it, a fantasy and all now is but a glimmer of pieces of skin sewn together by strokes of a cursed luck, a pinned down angel who doesn’t speak of the things she has seen in the coming ages to pass through the eye of a needle, standing on a clothespin.

I bled from the inside and was diagnosed as deserving such an apostle of gruesome Leviathan. Bare your tongue to my lips once more and there will be nothing left. Horror in an instant was meant to change me forever. The twinkle in my throat snuffed out by the lycan divergence from my closeted younger self.

I must cry without warning for the instincts I’ve seen that strike down the spirits of hallowed saints and servants to the undertaker. I whisper- to no one- my story, my groggy memory and steamy lessons forced to learn.

To be honest, my lovlies and lillipads- I beg to forget yet the script replies in my head to every nuanced step forward. I reconcile my anger through confused and drowning waters: nothing, as of now, is at all clear. So it is then that I join the mangled masses of the dishonest, on our knees we listen to the wind wrap around the crypts of the elite.

I have it not in me to tell the whole truth, as it all happened- even if I could remember all grit  and dank opinions- all harshness and dissonant screams that echo through the shallow hallways in which I trespass.

God, please don’t take off my clothes again, never asking or polite. Demands are high for the wanting and violation was always signed on the blank page of my memory. Never a glance to my eyes, never hearing my cries late at night once home again- take a shower to wash you out of me again with soap and festering. I forever unclean and not trusting: fucking you or anyone else in this profane world. I am full to the earlobes with acid eating away at my lifelines. I keep quiet, head down to the dirty carpet and try not to breathe too hard.

Maybe it isn’t a good idea to re-think the past, trying to figure out why me. Whom do I blame, who can I love without warning and coughing. But I do listen to the past as I struggle to find a path through the mire and myth- most of which I’ve blocked out completely. I wish for clarity and to truly remember, but my brain disagrees and is as stubborn as I am. No, you don’t understand and neither can I, through and through with the rain still hitting the shutters of that house with such force as to summon the dead.

I curse the ground I tromp on and yet smile at a cup of coffee, a pair of kind eyes while I wait in line for cereal, a moment to myself to regain control of the events of my past and present as they flash by. Could I have deserved this at 17? Maybe the roman gods would think so- or so it seems the world would want me to understand. The mad hatter has no more comment at this time.

I may be prone to lucid dreaming and pornography but I have a vengeance that shouts down like a tornado and will channel my historic pain through the ages and future losses and despondents. I haunt the wicked in me, as my calling permits me so, that is the wicked in you and you still remain unclear in my visions in the morning.