Post-Modern Analysis...

Crazy Horse aside,
I gave in once to drink
with those post-modern Evangelicalists.
Angels?
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.

Hypothetically,
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.