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.