Trans queer erotic poem

I will search you over,
find your talented areas and let them
release their power,
in front of me.
Forget your wants and needs,
all that will be given to you in time.

Vampire raves came merging together
with the dirt messy trembling
that leaves you breathless every time.

Loose your mind to steam air,
dripping to the west,
we can forgive each other til the dawn of man,
again rises to the front of me
and demands my time and power.

Start the melting,
wax on fingertips.
The wrecking and filthy hot twilight
summons the mouth to water,
the service can begin once all are assembled,
hunger needs me to stop only
for a gasp, moans gave in to the silence.

Exhibition is an art form as well as writing,
pushing the boundaries of clarity of mind and madness,
mouth and legs open up to curve around you.

I will take my time,
and make you wait until you beg.
I do so like to hear that tone in your voice.
Honey, kinky knows my number- just saying.

I find the pulse in your throat,
your hands and wrists, lips.
Pulling at me like a high
that makes my breath slow, my teeth ache,
my blood pumps harder through me,
I want to feel your energy inside me-
completing the electrical circuit,
fucking sparking inside me.

Waking the witch,
I move and lay dripping to the east,
for fortune arouses the vampire awakening.
The last supper with sex and creation.
Lift me up and take me down,
live inside a moment, and learn again
why you remember me in the morning.

It was the raven watching in the rafters,
that made me nervous.
Red eyes turned dark,
save me from my nightmare dreams,
stay up with me and hold me,
sometimes without warning,
hard and fast we go again
to the trans sonic field.

Take off your clothes,
grinding up against the shower wall,
water soothes the aches of the body,
relax into me.
I can feel you behind me.
Turn on your hands to the curves
of my movements,
your bones thumping against mine
fucking is its own religion,
salvation is coming.

Heretic Entertainer speaks...

Heretic entertainer,
my occupation was dirtied
by the barbershop next door with blood on his floor.
Most people see the smoke and say nothing,
the furnaces lit all night long.

Violent entertainers have joined the circus freaks,
the pythons drift to sleep,
lulled by a ceremony of rituals.

under water floating was an art formula,
I saw mathematics in my rear window,
every day of this fucking road.
God save the queen, I am getting tired.

Let us candor one last melody before the departed grave.
Rise up against the sun,
breathing and haunting our realms again,
once over and backwards,
giving into the thought of night and being here.

safety forgotten in the tumult,
we lay down for our "sins", I suppose,
if we must.

I don’t want to though and I don't see my mistakes as sins anyway,
they help me learn,
and remember to not forget, as it were.

Listen to your own heartbeat,
try and fix the history if you want to
but I would focus separate and within, on the now.
The water is getting close to the sand
and we are tuning into this perception,
this channel is changing and we are moving
and sinking with it.
Keep close and breathe it out.

Secrets and dynasties are not going to aid us forever,
We need new language and resistance
to serpentine fluids injected
into the brains of our ancestors.

I can urge you forward if you care to drink
unmarked bottles,
speak in wicked tongues as saints of the underworld.

I am an empath to the so-called demons,
listening to their haggard tales and tears,
lay soft in my lap
and I will stroke your hair
until the screaming in your head
slows to a stop.

while the bastards in the belfry
are howling out for help,
I cannot just let them suffer.
I take the inferno staircase alright,
no harm comes to us if we remember
who we really are,
light mists and angels alike,
though fallen to the crust of the earth,
we are still golden.

Difference is Pleasure

Death kept us sidetracked for miracles to occur. You can keep waiting for your miracle while the rest of us will start making some changes around here. It’s about damn time for you to get off your ass, get out of your closets and basements, and start shaking the earth baby-

clothes are optional and sarcasm is one of my means of communication. I want those thumping feet in the dark of the night keeping time with the only clock in the room that is in my pocket.

Give me spirit to descend from the mountain and shout to the crowds forthcoming and of the messages foretold. We are forever. Our earth unfolding for each other. Rights are a spiritual command from the chaos of this unforgiving world. I want to mess it up, fuck it hard, matter different, opium haze and cigarette whiz kids ace their finals.

I make my mark, naked and got caught in a ferris wheel, gamble me away and let the erection carry on through the evening, swelling of your feet, coming around from miles around to catch the circus rolling through.

Meet your maker, take your fake i.d. and get into the nearest wanker bar and take a seat next to gentlemen in the grey pinstripe. “I’ve wanted a pair of those shoes you’ve got on for four months now,” you say to the pinup, striped man gawking tenderly in your direction- same man, different story.

“Oh, yeah? he pinstripe speaks gruffly. That is about all there is to say on that account so you and the pinup sit in silence. you order your splash with a nut olive and spritzer in a cone glass with an umbrella straw.

Jesus I just want a cigarette and huff the night away listening to something pounding, several stragglers and jugglers fall in and out of line to pay their alcohol tabs. I sit in the corner booth chugging whiskey since three this afternoon. Rape and pillage me out of here. Sir, can I get a refund? I don’t think it works that way here, vile mausoleum.

Apes on strings, whiskey with wings, carnivale frenzy with my one foot in the door as I look back into the night tunnel that brought me here, signing off and reading a book while sitting in the shower. Steam seething me awake, I breathe and taste the hot rain, blacken the night and forgive me.

I ran into the corner of the your driveway and nocturne emissions trying to escape the day...I owe him a dollar by the way. Nickels and pennies fall from the tree of life when it’s turned upside down and given a good shakin'. Most are in it for the money, I have found.

Panic keep me awake and take me in your shaking hands and then let me go. I pace the chessboard floor every night, and you never show up on time.

Sick stomachs and dying and repentance, freaks in the foyer, lions in their dens teething and waiting for any signal. Luck has nothing to do with it, just ashes once the lions change over and lay down their respective lives. Enough.

Pulpit practice, I do yearn for a safe space but found no one and no where. Land of nowhere and the irony is that I wasn’t sure what I wanted, what I want. Excuse my confusion but the hounds howl too loudly, moats and sea

men floating through the earth’s core on the day that we get out of here, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t care, though I do. I have to because I have a place here in this pulpit, this studio, this book,

this dancefloor, this channel and that spiral out of control. Chaos stares me in the face and I will just learn to laugh in his face: master and slave is no fun in this case.

I swear to God if things don’t change, I will shut my mouth and not speak. I will refuse to settle for manipulations of thoughts and phrases. I will be the heretic- every time.

Such is the odd confusion that I lay in between: a drowning and a tornado. ha ha. Just light up my darkness, you foreign objects and passions I cannot explain. I have more to give than some stanza one time and a famous night that always ends up with lights out.

Horrified, I shout to the sky. Just because I have seen it before does not make it easier, shut the fuck up on that piano note. You are singing flat and bursting out of your corset.

You either got it or you don’t. Baby, it can’t be taught in any school I’ve ever heard of and I won’t teach what I don’t understand myself, not just yet. Give me a moment to think, please.

I see sideways, hear scratching and think it’s a something.... let’s just say, worse for the time being. I can’t write out any more of that thickness for now. Alone and artist is hard.

Together and artist is hard as well, in fact just stop the video camera altogether and notice a pattern repeating itself. We are all the same and yet not altogether anything the same. Difference is pleasure.

Slowed down the world is exotic

            A festering begins in the base of my brain. I don’t know, maybe it is just a week of unforgivables. My body reacts to the tension I feel from all four corners of oblivion and earth. I can’t stop my mind from hopping over harsh themes, skipping stones across the stream of my Michigan childhood, such as death and suffering- the thought stays just long enough for an image that would shake the walls of Jerusalem. Paint my picture with sorrow and forgiveness, the colors of the stormy night. 

Restraint was useless when the tiger is in her cage for the night, the dolls packed up nice and neatly in their perspective boxes- plastic heaven. I was always aware that the stakes are high and performance is expected when the dawn arises and I struggle to stay in bed, once awake I try to keep calm but the fuels in me arise and I shall never be the same. Forgive me for my sex drive and appeal, I guess I felt the need to apologize for everything. There are so many rafters to appease, dark rooms to covet and keep silent.
I don’t mind change as much as I used to. Safety doesn’t seem to enter in through the front door, he waits until twilight and sits in your kitchen whether you want him there or not. I dress for a formal occasion and fix him whatever the hell we have in the kitchen hoping with every step, from stovetop to sink, that I can appease him for the time ever swarming around, hissing in my ear. 

There seemed no sanctuary, no continuous profit to roll in, no voice that stayed steady through my life of mirrors and awakenings. I always walk “blind”: my third eye knows more than he is telling. Strangers seeped in through the top of my head- my veins opening up to understand the challenges of your particular being, the cracks on the sidewalk, the places for me to sink in and stay. I will figure this out. I just have to keep witness and writing. Hard times have been and hard times are still as of yet to come.
            Cathedrals have their own language. I came across it many years ago, before you were even a thought in the mind of the mystics. Don’t be red and drowning. Caving in through the roof, the dove and lizard intertwined, single orphaned star set to explode in the wilderness sometime soon (in relative terms). I wrestle with the angel every night. 

Waking up with someone else’s heartbeat in your ear, you cough, shake, and sit up. You find your bed empty. I usually panic at this point, oh god, was that a dream? I search the house and find no one. I find myself so much of the time and very alone. I have come to respect alone.

            Sensation kept repeating, a protest against a wax generation: machines give you a wink and a smile. Mothers shed tears like a candle drips from burning long into the night’s atmosphere. Driving through the rain, you pull over to the side and sit, wait out the torrents: ice slicing through grey fog. Closing your eyes you let the rhythm rest over you. Sensation is coming, you can calm down and ride it through. 

I like to sit in the bathroom by myself and listen to music turned all the way up in the headphones that were my dads. Empathy comes with time and trauma. Lean and move slowly, I learn and lead the steps: the dance just beginning to grow, it erupts inside, loose and fluid. Screams become blind and the thunder in my head is silenced, for a moment. Time surrenders to me quietly and I bow in respect and deep gratitude. Slowed down the world is exotic. 

"Show me your teeth" (Lady Gaga lyric) Sex Poem

It was underneath the pyramid,
that my serpent hid- waiting and wanting
energy urges you awake.
Need is relentless and owns
pathways to deep rooted senses,
you imagine fucking hard and slow.
Trying to restrain- you touch yourself anyway,
 and the furnaces ache and
are found in the darkness under.
Give in with me and remember that we are
cool, calm and collected until the music deepens,
heat seeping into all corners of your body,
hard to keep the breath steady.

I wanted to feel my spirit sink into your base spine,
coursing through, I come over you
and take the sacrament given.
I am taken and unfathomed,
hands seek to unearth me.
you cry out and sigh within yourself,
testimony of your body tense and surging to life.
Restless, you beg for sex scenes,
coursing together like a fucking hurricane
you shake and press into me- rhythms become melodies.

Your mouth, dry and asking
to taste my throbbing pulse-
I let you take me in your mouth,
lips sucking and tongue moving
to the desire of my head-
thumping out my every resistance,
I let you take control.
My desperate wanting cries could be heard by divinity.

Let the moon seek you out,
kiss you and follow
the beats down your neck,
biting and giving life to astral sex and sin.
Hard, I melt and burn
 and we rise together,
Come undone. 

Post-Modern Analysis...

Crazy Horse aside,
I gave in once to drink
with those post-modern Evangelicalists.
I think not.
Dig down deep
in that hole of insanity,
clowns on strings,
dolls hung from the rafters
of my room,
and yours in the astral world,
I would imagine.

Haunted history kept its mouth closed,
nailed shut,
coffin side up we float on.
Mouth taped shut,
pinned balloon on the calendar,
to remember re-death.
Cancel out my eyes
and I will still sing out loud
write to the cryptic cosmos,
and hear her sigh of relief.

Christ came to me in the night,
I shuddered to life,
butterfly shaking off frostbite and silicone.
Fuck the drugs and the aftershave,
the matching ropes with which to hang oneself,
the ticking matchstick figures,
I was not ready to succumb
to the flame again, just yet.
Enough is enough.
Ice Queens take up your arms
or forget about it and go home to fires in the cupboards,
no money and no power,
scuttle back to your Mansions in the east and the west.
Tantrums are for twelve-year-olds.

The dragon in me is sick in cold shutterings,
shaking off the trauma like a violin keeps time.
Hands on the floor,
head down on the tile floor,
breathe through it, the pain never lasts- in my experience.

Liquor Affection....

Sweat and candor
mixed with the pleasure of the room,
the pounding sensation
you get in your stomach,
You feel the energy lift as you
turn your headphones towards your hands
and imagine the throb of anyone
against you.
Feeling light headed,
dizzy from sex and dark rooms,
pick your poison
give in to the landscape,
bodies folding in and out of each other.

I dare you to whisper in my ear,
stand behind me in a crowded room,
learn and give a little something to the night.
The pulse in the back of your throat,
coursing through your brain and blood,
through your body on energy high,
liquid can be licked out of the air,
the dripping bodies make us pound together.

Secrets will be kept and told,
soft hungers are succumbed to,
the howls and moans will be heard
in churchyards everywhere.
Up against any wall,
I let the hair fall in my face and
my eyes darken.
You want to try and change me?

Poem: Machine Generation

A call against the machine generations to come:
I saw the future,
unearthed to me by tunnel vision.
I can’t see straight as it is,
vertigo shifted my thoughts to machines.
Bound and gagged
I watched the pulleys and screws,
talk to each other in other tongues.
I felt cheap.

Anti-Cyborg Manifesto
spilled out of me
as easily as the peace movement,
same difference.
Cut Angel -
I saw lives to be lost,
minds and bodies,
tossed aside-
their performance was no longer efficient.

Body bags in the snow,
outside of apartment buildings,
homes where flesh,
though haunted,
lived and gave breath
to help someone somewhere, I hope.
I will be happy now though,
to sit on the floor,
and write this on a computer.
Technology has its benefits indeed.

I will not wake up
and find a machine,
sleeping next to me in bed,
I will protest that.
I would rather fight with a being,
than sleep with a machine.
A little work should be involved in life,
I feel,
and love as well, we could imagine.

Walking in Between the Air

Walking in Between the Air

I wish I could stop the screaming.
I want freedom from the tyranny of the astral world,
the spiritual world has been taken over
and its leaders seem cramped and claustrophobic,
all crumbled up in the closet.
I will not inject strychnine,
nor morphine or heroines.
I have had enough of this blasphemy.

Let’s re-script and re-inscribe
with new Jesus walks.
Empathy had it’s place,
in every moment of my life,
a good lesson to learn,
and patience for things to come.

I want to burn the barn down,
start over with new stages and pages,
a different play to perform,
this one is a bit too close to home,
hurts the skin to see it so.

I can’t stay in the basement any longer,
it is time to see the sun again.
I am ready.
If I came up,
through the ashes,
the burnings and scars,
the ice water, hot water,
vapors that choke thin the breath,
air squeezed through a tube.

There just seems to be blood everywhere I look,
in dreams,
in movies,
in life.
There is just too much death
and talk of sin.
Let us be people:
complicated in chaos theory,
redefining our frames, funnels,
Keep your head looking up.

Enough of this madness. I will bring us out of the rabbit hole.

I felt ruled by an energy,
that I could not really explain,
in words.
I will struggle again,
strive to explain,
that when you bleed-
so do I.
Enough of this madness,
we come out of the rabbit hole,

No, my therapist did not
tell me to write this note.
I write due to a calling I feel,
a vocation for now.
Another pressing need,
I have to write it down,
try to express,
tell you-
anywhere out there,
that things we be alright.

Can you hear?
Are you listening?
I will chill us out,
calm us down,
take some of this pain and strain away,
I will not leave.

There are ghosts everywhere,
all wanting attention,
in every room I walk into,
it seems.
Can be tiring sometimes.
It seems this kind of thing
runs in my family.

I have needs shouted and whispered,
people need a lot sometimes.
I give until I crash,
it will work itself out.
No worries,
ladies and fancy fellas.
Love is a deep and tricky thing.
Ah well, the game of chess continues
in our absence, ever ticking. 

The moon will be back in the morning...

I gave up the light,
for an evening-
she leapt out of her dress
and headed for southern plains.
I head North,
drove until I was tired
and drove on through the night.
I needed no sleep,
but wanted to rest and listen.
We can be connected wherever we are,
no tears tonight,
I will be back in the morning.

I must choose my words carefully,
the sensitive ones hurt-
if I describe in cruel and violent words
to express what I have seen,
what I cannot shake and spit at,
my phoenix is aching
and I will continue on.

I wish for no more tears,
no more stains
or accidents.
I want to shake free the beast,
for a moment.
Tell me a story,
of your past
and I will try to keep the conversation
light, though I can’t see in here
taken into dark, every night-
I will burst forth anew,
again and as usual.
No more pain and tears,
I beg of you,
my lions of light,
you are excellent and exquisite,
just the way you are.

Speak, little boy- I shall. (poem)

If it pleases the court,
I shall entertain.
Attention steal-
steel wheels on tracks without oil.
I will house all condos,
suburbia houses,
and abandoned gas stations
(where my grandmother lived
when they were young and poor)
in my brain for safekeeping,
while the sandstorm,
tears through your towns,
on the western plains.

I shall demand respect,
little boy,
My head turns slightly to the left,
the stage, though a love of my life,
can speak its own harsh language, sometimes.
It can be hard to keep up.
The Star that once shone brightly,
seems to fade from exhaustion.

Proverbs are keeping the time
of the ticking clock on the wall, and
I wish there was a Mausoleum,
large enough
to hide my dreams in,
away from my view.
I shall keep on searching,
for a grave,
a closet,
a shower,
a mirror,
in which I can hide some of who I am,
if you want me to,
since I always sense a
feeling that Im a bit
too crazy for you.

I wish there was a cathedral big enough,
in which my spirituality could grow,
be free and express what I know,
even if it's not quite
what you want to hear.
I am still looking.
I will not let you go,
though you did leave me.

I wish there was a page long enough,
a speaker loud enough,
with which I could speak on abuse,
violence, emotional and sexual assault,
harm, humiliation of others,
negative energies of all kinds,
vampires taking energy
(and sometimes other things too).
I see the crimes in front of me and
I will not be quiet.

So, if you want a place
to hear a freedom shout,
a page long enough,
a cathedral big enough,
a gender fluid enough,
a grave deep enough,
I can and will supply
a place for us to come together.

A lesson in Awakening: Megan's story for today heh

A lesson in Awakening:
            Awakenings are happening everywhere, at rapid paces and in the oddest of spaces. Revolution is only an eye’s blink away, starting from within and burst out of you like fire-breathing dragon bursts out of a theatre (the production was not a very good rendition of any play you fancy but hate when the actors massacre the thing: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (a musical that I love but would hate to see some group ruin it), any lame version of anything King Arthur (I hate this), etc.

            So we are fire-breathing angry dragons, out of our shells and free to roam. Where do these Awakenings happen? They happen while waiting for the subway in New York and you hear the most painful beautiful rendition of “Sittin on the Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding. The smile is taken off your face (just for a moment) and you realize that the world can be cruel and ugly, though beauty always surpasses (in my opinion) the negative. 

You just have to keep your eyes open for the small and the beautiful. Awakenings happen on a day (almost like any other) when you step out of the shower and look in the mirror. This is it. What are we here for? What are my goals? Who am I? Tis big shit to handle. That’s alright though, walking down the street, seeing the rain pour down outside your window, beauty in small measures as well as big.

            Co-option is a scary thing. I just want to warn you of this. Do not let yourselves be co-opted by things if at all possible. Co-option is alright if you have a plan to counteract. If you need/want to play the game, then you do that. I just want you to know that there are some ugly people out there that I have fought in dreams and just get weary. I know there are parties to be had and riots of the mind to attend, but it can be hard to fight back these shadows alone. 

I do not want this blog to be attacked for being unfeeling or unappreciative of all sorts of awakenings and persons of any queer, weird, thinking differently at all from the machine. I do not mean any offense. This is my personal experience. I can’t help but ache for your problems and your pain. Trust me my fellow psychics, queers, people in any kind of pain, turmoil of the soul or the body (I experience both so I get that). I just want you out there in the cosmos to know you are not alone. 

I put pop references (though these people can appear extreme- ) in my blog so that you can feel that you are not alone. Pop media people (some of them) feel your pain as well like Lady Gaga, . This is not just some stunt for attention. This is an honest exposure of myself, the individual that I am and how I feel about things.

            Just tread carefully because our words and our thoughts and ideas have shapes and ideas of their own. Shapes and shadows are good as long as you have a bit of control over them... I have seen dreams turn into nightmares many a time so I just want to warm on that front. Be prepared for that (don’t give up the project altogether...) 

No, that would be blasphemous at this point. So much good work being done, sun finally shining through dark red curtains. I thank you for your heart and applaud all of you who have written on this blog, written and posted somewhere to get your thoughts out loud- I congratulate you on your bravery. But I tell you there are monsters lingering in the dark yet to show their faces and it will be quite the brilliant battle. I look forward to it, Thank you for letting me share in your journeys and you share in mine.

The Queer Couple goes down the rabbit hole.... Welcome to the Tea Party. (Poetry)

This channaler transvestite/transgender person comes to you from Tom Waits underground:
I call all bar drinkers, dancers in the dark, poets leaning on wallstreets and alleyways,
musicians in New Orleans, you voodoo spirituals, Sex Magic.
I take you through our journey we had one night in the tempest,
the storms and teeth biting.
We commune together tonight to invest a little time in queering gender
in one person, we meet together in these crevasses in the underworld,
feminine and masculine in one, ice and fire in one, light and dark in one person.
I live in the present, a phoenix rebirth from ashes, I come to my senses.
I feel the shadows searching for light,
energy throbs deep inside me wanting u to drink it out of me, at first,
and then burst, in flashes of glory and vibrant bolts.

Eyes are open and the fountain draws near and we drink to health and happiness,
culture and dissonance from that culture, years lived and moments in the present we press ever onward.
We want to share with each other, something intimate- more than just life itself, but kinship and respect,
pulse with furies passion,
tears of divinity
and closeness are shared between two people
and there was glory all around.

She got lost in the wonderland I made for her...

You had an interview
with the red dragon.
Sex was in the air,
though I was 600 miles away
I had not gone fucking lame-
heartless cold queen
had not lost her touch.

Your head was a holocaust,
seizures giving way
to ocean depths,
viking ships I would set sail.
So many visions
I went blind
from camera flashes
and lightning.
She still got lost
in the wonderland I made for her-
Stupid doll. 

Resetting the Clock: 2012

shaken free of shape shifting
I come back to this plane for now,
dull in color and shadow.
I want to feel no obligation
to oblige you.
human sacrifice was weakness,
swollen lips set to throat
and pounding.
What? stop staring.
Was I suppose to give you a god damn alias?
Fucking chalk written on your wall?
what can I do but shake
water off my hair in the shower.
I was the cold chill
coming up for air
giving the astral world a new name
resetting the clock

We are forced into freedom
faux and fickle.
I just ache to want to believe you.
Breath, breath, breath
give up and relax. grit my teeth to hold back.
Cut in two.

My God, My God.
I can’t be who I am in the dance of the kingdom
set in stone
no one survives the reality of the mirror.

I am burning..

I am burning,
this perfect anger channeled through the open window.
I kept my mouth shut
and prayed that the emotion
would sweep over me and leave,
and I could sit in peace,
ten seconds on the clock and counting.

You kept to yourself
and I found that I had
to take care of myself,
because when the drinks are empty,
and when the money’s all gone,
I am alone and sober,
a place I do not want to be.
Who does?

Who ends up at the rainbow's end anyway?
Just the fan clubs and the spiders
that seem to never have hard questions to answer,
no troubles or stories of woe,
lucky you.
This boy's "personal" opinions dictated by some Lion in the sky,
some robe on a throne,
some saint in the mortuary,
that is lying to me-
Must be nice not to think or care.

The mixed beats
that thump the back of my spine,
on hot nights,
circuits of my brain
wrung out like dirty water
from your clean kitchen towels.
I kept myself from mouthing words,
the maze to my mind
was closed for renovations.

The pain that can only be understood
in silence,
I found my vocal chords,
twisted like scissors,
an orchestra plays in the barnyard,
messy murders and sexy suicides aside (supposedly).

I was pushed out of the basement early,
when I was, as of yet, unprepared.
You handed me such “vital” aids:
string, a bar of soap, shiny flint.
While you sleep in the comfort of friends and family,
I will be out in the night,
fighting tigers with string,
defending myself from apathy and depression,
somehow, with soap.
And I will be seen,
in the early morning hours,
striking flint to the steel machine,
sparking the sun to action every morning.