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. 

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