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.

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