I chose the graveyard shift

            The persistence of the muse inspires me, my friends and partially counterparts, to write you from some distant hole in a prison cell wall where I eat my last meal. The cold wind runs through my veins as I struggle to stay awake another hour. Level with the lover affairs and the sainted hares that travel you downward to the urges of the crowds.

I can linger only for a moment to watch the guillotine carry you away, a witch burning on a stake too I could imagine. So many lost and forgotten, the blade cuts the skin and I repeat her sad eyes in the mirror. Fortnights from now, the seas higher and luminescent, the trees baying out their mourning songs as we roll and toss through the thickness of the liquid air.

Float on, in embrace with me then for a moment and creep the night away with a touch and song to sway to. Enter through the night inside me and we share the secrets of the dark in unison. We crave then the shaman beats of trance and rhythm inter-wired through your bloodstream, I weave in and out. I can sleep another day. Let tonight be a touch of ember.

Inferno baby, we awake the medieval magic that bellows beneath the surface of the earth and just under your skin. Warm throat pulsing, we dance the trauma out: killings in the street, drop dead ultrasounds. We beat out the floor with our feet: bruising raped women cry out, battered children, overdoses on drugs of the wizard on that yellow brick road. I push key to black key to convince myself that there is a reason to write and to shake and break open. Up and out we go and down into another rabbit hole. Find a way to find the blue in the sky when you wake up in the morning worth all of the bones in the collective closet. I chose the graveyard shift. 

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. 

the festival of fools and graphic novels

The festival of fools and graphic novels is just starting as you arrive at our next chapter. We enter in to our mad house with a grin and stilettos, ribbon twist up thighs and linger close to the skirt that she wears when she goes out. Lucifer and his vikings (before the fall) lead the pathway to the holy ghost who is burning himself alive again as he watches this particular circus go through the towns and cities of our beloved past and present again to be the future soon.

The jokers kept the place tidy while you were away and their black coats and white gloves leave us remembering their faces that light up the mirrors on the other side once and awhile. We stare in and through them and don’t know how this trick is done.

The carpet lays out a red assembly line through the curves and passageways of this old slump of a building found on the corner of vanish and wicked. We make ends meet inside of us and collect you for the awakening. These disembodied hands dancing through the air like birds as we look up to the cathedral like foyer.

Rooms of labyrinth mirror lands we walk through and see with awake eyes all of our various characters and the fornicators and the suicide makers and the hanged man swings through the mirrors we are running from unless you can stand there and stay still.

Angels call us to elemental forecasts and we are swept up and carried through the quick sands that waterfall through this room of only keyholes. Where green and purple look like different colors entirely and the entities snicker at the duller of the masses that have an understanding that one gets out alive, one wakes up from this dream.

Once we do wake up from this sensory overload, our voices soften and we huddle together for fear of falling. The tower of this crafty illumination carried us away from angry stock marketers with their hung faces and slips of shots of whiskey for whom those bells toll their deafening secrets of the traitors and traders. I lost my way among the throng and end up falling asleep ever so stealthily in the ivy-covered moors just inside our fun house to wake in the morning and wonder if it was all an encouraged nightmare.

Yes, there is a monster

            On eves of the hallowed, the lady fair walks out of her red doorframe and into the night with a cup of coco. Pumpkin heads on stakes with candles inside that give the impression of glow and stare as she lifts off her heals and peels out to the moon as if the ground would never be enough for her in a world in which she was destined to pretend that she was dirt bound. Creation took flight and thus she was able to see beyond the barriers of weight and gravity and seemed to receive a peace that the earth could not give her on nights when she became so forlorn that she wanted to lay down on the floor and be sucked into the under planes for a time.

            My God, My God. Who am I and where do I fit into this realm that stretches me shallow and rips me into pieces for the “common good”. I must choose to be derailed, disinclined to see the material as the majestic. Let us softly caress in the deep moments of prophet serving and diamonds could be forgotten once their sheen dulls and duels for our attention.

            Who is he that looks restless back at me in the mirror when I am angry and surging to change the defeat and surrender all that I see in the world of the real. I come from time warps and chastised brethren that falter with each new idea of empathy and mischievous undertaking. To directly pursue the phantoms that float in and out of my periphery cackling and shaking their fists with smirk and purpose. I sweat eagerly to find ways in which to be truly alone when I am not in the presence of another human form. The afterlife and the dimensional realms that encircle us are hard to quiet once they break the barrier with you one day when you are sitting drinking coffee and listening to what have you done when the nightmares start to get worse for the wear and wear me out in the nighttime when really I want to close my eyes and forget the visions that flash through my mind.

            Fight force with passion creativity and Armageddon is coming to sweep us off of our carpet stains and mail orders into a setting of warlords and the twilight monsters of the molten earth. Is there doubt in my mind that life is supposed to good, that people don’t die before they are ready, that as we sit and spit we are all dying and some unfairly so.

            To conclude this delusion of severance from the tiger’s eye and all these fine vibrating spaces around us, we twirl fortunate that these frail bodies do give us a place to sleep for the night. I end up in a rabbit hole regardless of what time it is anywhere. It would seem as if that is my purpose and I habit it as well I can. The fervor in my voice would have made you believe I was an animal of wit and magic maybe but I don’t know for sure. I seem uncertain of myself with all masks aside and put on the bathroom shower curtain to draw conclusions and dry for a spell. I am misanthropic fatal as seen by my performative audience.

            Channeling to the whole is difficult to judge by in the terms of through the white columned hallways and byways of international skepticism. Lying only became me when I was a monkey in the tree outside my neighbors’ house maybe on some Wednesday night when I didn’t have anything else to do. Yes, there is a monster of sorts that hides lonely and eager to get some stage presence in our drama for today, but I don’t let him out often in circumstances of the vile we drink out of.

            Where is our conference room in which I could read this out loud and explain- or demanded to try at least to whisper in the minds of the folk I live around. It was an odd assortment of discipline and slippery moonshine. Twas Brillig and so forth, and I was humbled by your presence in our house again. Was there anything I can get you? A piece of my mind to munch on casually or a scene from the hole in the ground... I was too shy to simply say what I mean and confront you in the mirror, dear players and characters of my mind infinite set in my brain that seemed more confusing than when I started this writing endeavor. 

Masked Ball beyond the mirror: the mad house performed

The mad house performed for tonight is an insanity masked ball with full plumage and feathers falling slowly from the rafters: dead doves screech aching to the chessboard floor though, through the deep transistor dancing, no one notices. We are all glimmer and gold, reckoning to each other in a waltz made for magic lanterns and forest forgetting. The masses dance to the tune of the puppet king sitting on the throne at the forefront of the room: masked suffocated doll in its own dollhouse that we wreck back to every night for we didn’t seem to have another option.

I know there is always a choice if you are aware of the spoon fed to your lips and you stand and walk out of the front door into the dark-if you can run faster than a whisper. Though we retch of vanity, our costs for devotion seems lower on the totem pole in the middle of the room than seemed worthy of our talents.

Etchings of unborn languages and tribes of mystics that have fell to co-option and death to the heretic: we burn at the stake for the wings of the leviathan are ever growing and wrapping us close to their sides. The Judas Complex came drifting through the ballroom like a cold chill from an open window set to face the stormy sea that brought us here on waves of tribulation and apathy.

The mad hatter stands in shadow and watches these religious rites performed through disease and disguise: nothing is as it seems in the halls of the mountain kings. I never wake fully from the strings and serenades of the amercian dream of pop pulp and fruit shavings left on the kitchen counter and forlorn. Hatter wails the call of the drinking dawn: arise and wake to the fullest extent of your being. We, caged without bars in our “pleasant little dream and fancy” we are told over and over through the deep voices of the fear of a nation. All is false and fair in the ride of the carnal and carnivale.

Spring forth with reckless passion and dissonance, you lionesse of sex magic and complex cognition. Once your mouth open and letting the bats fly out of your tongue and the ecstasy flows unfulfilled through your mainstream- there is no turning back for the wondering innately insane.

I relish at the art of manliness and mayhem and murdering epitaphs that resort us to one function of the Capital and heads of state. The heavens are burning and I can feel the ash on my skin as I watch the passion stifled and the masses end up sucking on a rat’s tail thinking it was sugar cane. When will we learn, my company of counterfeits, that pain of one is pain of all.

My antics and rhetorical statements seemed unaltered by the alters set up around this room of clowns
staring. I twitch to the idea of control of the monster inside me- tamed and tortured defeat, I may rest for a moment though my eyes sink in deeper unto themselves with every staggered breath. Words fall and fail to complete me, to explain the bloody horse chains that keep our heads down to the floor, our 
forseen purpose to step one sole ahead of another and leeching our souls out to the stock market. We thus so distracted by pain that we forget to look behind us and witness the man holding our reigns, teething on our energies. Nuance and nausea woke me with a gasp and shutter. Revolt. Spit fire. Regain consciousness and awaken. 

We Delve into Insanity with the Cheshire Cat

We are back on schedule again says the warm and fuzzy Cheshire cat with a grin and Alice’s arms are long and she has grown three times her size again and she is just not used to it. What a metaphysical cave this is? As I wander and weep through shades of grey waters with one hand on my thigh and the other on my hip, I sit in shaman style and akin myself back to where we begain our first anthems and wounderings and wombs of the Netherlands on a picnic in July.

The universe opens up to me like a fate muse of the resistance to start a spark of the infinite in you. I sit raven, worrying about you so much that I cannot help but cry and hope you will become like the willows in my sleep. Kept above ground hurts the eyes when you are in the dark my dears, in the underland. Hollow forms keep constantly consonant and wrathing to the machine and kept secret by the seductive.

I ate the fruit again and rose up and did my best to remember the ones who haven’t survived the up stream flow of life. We must carry our dead in our memory more to smile in the act of remembering the beauty of true spirits who have touched us in moments that ember us along. The fire may be beat out of us but rise again the glories- we seize through ice.

The hierophant does not know what to say about all of this. The griffin is tangled in the dawn and the turtle seems upside down as of late. No dear matter though, we carry marry on and money and forget for a minute that there is no distance whatsoever in between me writing this with all characters present and the reader staring at the page, the screen, the scribes dictates only something higher than the soul sitting on a bed near Carnegie Melon or Tom Waits, Gnarls Barkley, and Lady Gaga. Rough everglade land now coming towards us with increasing velocity and towards the equator rabbit hole we go.

There was a time that I floated, mid trance and a trace of lace caddy lingerie. I sense the faces around me drawn and now stiffening. Prizes and so thought wins became blemished and unforgiving. But we succumbed to the taints of the world and then laughed again later on. There are irovies to twinkle and minor notes to play in times for candles and sex liquor. Maze match me in heaven and hell, unbound by the restrictions of flowing transience and perfumed anarchy.

I stand no more in the rain until another shadow night in which we delve into insanity. There is a presence that presents itself in insanity that can be as common as a feather found on the ground while you were walking down the park bench when you were ten. The mind loops us back and forth in so many clockwise directions that it’s delirious after a time. So much ticking backward into the future is needed.

We cabaret theatre and save each other from the rashness of reality and its commonplace violence with real inquisitions. The grin and grimace came lightly into my window and I spoke to our Cheshire- for which army are you for then: faint or follow? Twilight formed a smile around her face and back again to the bottom of her spine where it stayed and gave her great pleasure through the night.

Untold horrors of the Knights Templar

The eyes awoke and saw the pyre fumes raise the city up around them. Clash the metaphysics of what you believe with the amens of your ancestors as I swiftly react (with a rise of my mind off the pavement) to the pitchfork masses that swarm through the marshes on the seventh day and rape the women so as to bring rains down on the crop fields in their hometown of nowhere. Whatever the prize for redemption, there is no hole deep enough, no trench long enough, no riverbed wide enough to save the monkeys from their mayhem.

I watched from the star-crossed moors of the main land where most of the battles took place in the medieval ages of the Viking warriors and wisdom trees that speak in tongues that no man alive can understand or so they say with their lips crossed and their fits pumping to curse the all night vigils of prayer and foster children. The violence reigns down on the plantations and cremations of innocents, born to a world that spat them back out and walked among them as if god itself gave one people permission to harness another.

The voodoo kings sit in their temples and reach for their cauldrons with cattails surrounding the base of their skills and perceived knowledge from the crows that used to mourn the living and the dead. Vampire calls were surrounded in the twilight by mists and wakings of the undead mannequins with their legs in a tangle of one another and a gift from the Magus.

I felt comfortable here among the medium talents and frost covered muses of Babylon. On a number of occasions the spirits that are unsettled in their new ethers talk in quiet harshness, fast and repeating, they seem to recite all of their past battle wounds and ship wrecked fantasies unfulfilled. I try to keep one ear open to the living that are descended from princes of the riptide, one ear open to the dead and resurrected, and then my mind is free to wonder upon cobblestone sidewalks in London, prisons of traitors and tyrants to the queen, and untold horrors of the Knights Templar. Each story that is believed to be the truth stuck to my skin like tic tak toe on the hottest day of the summer. I never sleep alone. 

Controlled Virus

The government sent shock waves

through the system: tubes on a chain

around the Legion’s neck.

Cancer seemed not to be self-taught,

but was contagious among our children

and light warmers- thick blood was thinned

to prove a point to the FDA

and to cover up the data of the microwave weaponry age

which was made in the amount of time

it took me to write down my protest,

squeezing anthems out of a hurricane.

I blaspheme my heritage even before I wake up

from a dazed and drained sleepwalking.

We are sitting in our lawn chairs,

smoking cigarettes to cover the smell

of morphine drips and drunks and the cataracts

that constricted the brain waves

and made us wither in the noonday sun.

Pain made me thirsty to awaken the old apothecary smells and souls,

the alchemical beings that can sing out and stand us still.

Learning again from silence and begging serenity and clairvoyance,

I match the pitch of the clockmaker,

turned my head to the icicles losing their battles

and sighing with deep and dark resonance.

Catch fire to the tumors of the ages,

these omniscient dangers and religions

grasping bloody hands to our skirts and shorts,

yelling their deliverance fake prophecies

and hunting us down-one dove at a time.

The serpent licks his teeth again and smiles

as the audience rushes to the back of the auditorium.

The services shall begin once the clock strikes his master:

only a matter of time and the mind to awake

until the slave revolts against the his sovereign. 

The Game of Bones

Was it so wrong to carry the thoughts of holocausts around with you- never to forget lives lost in the name of control and intervention. The breath of the beast is on the face of the personality that is at the back of my head, following like the rats to the piper. This cancer made amends with the government and then made us stop and stand naked under the moon, thrashing and cursing the skies out of which we came.

Would you have me for a late lunch snack and justify the means through the eye of a pinball machine? I think so, if you can catch this nightingale undertow as I ebb and flow through your skin and out of the window in the back of your mouth- resistant to the linear thoughts that pattern my house in the daytime.

I sought after ghost stories and galaxies of endorphins, pining for their markers in the horizons abroad and south for the spring and the summer. It’s too hot here for thinking so I will march to the drum you left in my closet, for a faint fleeting moment, and then pick up the game of bones that we were waltzing with to the tune from the firefighters guild in the circus ring.

Forked- I was forgotten and lip synced away into the bowels of rapid hounds that bite the ankles of their loved ones to metaphor a scene from my dreams last night. Could I have written all these signals wrong? Tainted came the fall of my intellect and all that remains in spitting verses of cerebellum madness. 

Anarchy in Wonderland

            Anarchy In Wonderland:

Come through clearly and without reservation: the mad hatter is rising up with an army of nations and quanderings. The power of all the exploding suns and of the following generations continue to repeat the same rhetoric, the same hollow rites acted out in the asylum of the joker. Fire mouth breathing haunted this hatter so desperately that with all conditions considered, she decides that he must rise to the revolution, change the turns in the tides of complacent innocence and perversions of our liquid nature.

Where will the cost come from? all this violence and deceit comes zipping in through the electrical wires of the houses on my street, on yours. Defiance in the eye of the alligator, tirades of triad myths come knocking hard on my door asking for answers. Immortal we feel flesh of the labyrinth, molded together maybe or not we can stand the strain. The virus comes in waves across the side of my face, a shadow over the moon.

Thus the correspondents from the scarab beetles give way to the power play politics of the ancients, valley of the kings and wanton wombs tried to keep from birthing me in all my forms that came from the cloud cover, yet I still dug in deep to shake the pyramids to freedom. They will dance again among the constellations and we can parade though light becomes strong and mirrors are multiplied to beauty and enlightenment. Make way for the candle holders- rather than the candles for their impotence and surrender.

Doom and grit, we still choose to stay in one place, one mental state- Im fucking done with that. Maybe astral screaming is people struggling out of the coma of trauma of the collective and individual. Monday Modern Day Resistance is our phase and cause because hell is over, let us choose to shutter these good prophets out into the lake on the moon-ages ago. Guns and poison are loaded into the brains of the masses and I will not stand for this much longer. Wake up Alice in Wonderlanders: Mannequins walking their routes nine to five, in a subway station in London and in Washington.

I struggle, I feel to make you understand the direness of this situation. Oil is the new known throat of the ocean. Blood drips down all of our walls if you are looking carefully.

Change is coming- even if you aren’t ready for it, drums are beating to a new march within a growing population. We are getting angry. An abused eye turns away, and we pretend not to notice? Where is our empathy, pressed the mad hatter, forgetting we are the old languages of the ravens, the spirit can dance regardless of its position- out of the body, "get thee to a nunnery"- I guess some would say.

I take blame only for the madness of the hatter. I said it before and I will say it more fervently throughout. These questions and needs hanging over my head are like the keys I type, punctured and without remorse. 

Nightmares and Travel

the surging red rose anger smoothes through me and I feel uninvited to my own funeral. the sand was quick and unappetizing and I tried to shut my eyes from my own panic glass ceiling. I can think but only unofficially as a guard of the storm visions came sweeping up through the cracks in the stone floor that drips just twilight when you aren’t looking.

Attack the giver of blood that we were told was just wine with a bit of a human after taste. Don’t cross my bad day with your glossy sheen, your enemies are not mine to hunt down and eat for breakfast. I was tied to the ceiling fan and no one seemed to care to remember that my place was underground. I miss it there, the dim lighting and a cup of coffee to steady my senses.

Lift up the magnetism for an instant and you realize that I am just teething to scream out, to release some of the tension that pounded my head and gave me pain in my nightmares and travels to unique pleasures and circumstances. Villain of my mighty sword, I struck you down in forging a new mudslide through the desert. I distract myself from my own purpose though I can’t know where to go from here.

Temptation was my alley cat exterior. I was made for company of a darker side than you seemed to know even though you claim to know my insides caving in on walls of my room. I think you might’ve known me well in these times of crop circle deaths and skeleton tap dancing on the top of my head. Come from the closet and look my body up and down- with a smile, I exorcize you wide open so that you can see the moon soothing your burns and pressure points.

My mind was wild and ended up too much for the people who saw me in shopping malls and restaurants where I was only served water without a glass and a fake i.d. so that I could get into the party that I wasn’t invited to go to in the first place. I embodied the tortured spirit, the dying mythos of divinity. An art lost in the torrent of war and wind.

No psycho-bible bullshit can get me out of this hole in which I can only feel that there is ink drowning me in my own mind, over and over again until I am unconscious from this rape and take culture in which so many of us find it safe to hide.

My heart can’t be struck down, taken under to be alive for what you want or you need. No more unearthened secrets that taunt my psychic emotional despondence. Broken dove hanged as an example to other freedom winged mammals that death is coming faster for some then for others and I hate to watch the camera lense close. We give in with one last sigh and a wish that I had more morbid time to delve into the abyss that this world brings to my bedroom every morning. 

the mad hatter awoke from the same dream

The mad hatter awoke from the same dream again with a shake and a shouting to the rafters- eastern and northern dimensions unseen by most everyone. The fortune of the house of cards looks fragile to say the best, and she worried that the dream would come true- sooner than later. Beasts hide only for a time in the depths of the darkness before curiosity perfumed animal hostess- the wooded glen and moors of a time without capital and recompense. We shall be forced to unhinge together or to fall to the frail and the holy grail matters- a hat of a whole different kindred candle.

Given pills to swallow, hard and condescending, we write together in the pit- once only to look up at the sky and shine through the heaviness of the heavens. I choose my own earthen serendipity, luxury and fork tuning gave me the risen preconditioning to look the red queen in her one green eye and laugh.

Fireflies were instructed to lighten the mood and they surface to the top of my head and out of my third eye, leaving me room to grow, outstretched and forgetful. I killed a man in my sleep and the church held me: armory and chivalry so small that it can fit in the space between my fingers. The mission moon betrayed our chess game to the serpent harlequin who never smiles. Where am I in this space that breathes and only rests to heal the sickened children of the New Damned Dawn.

Eyes mourned the dark circles around them and crossed finders that dreams can play hide and seek long enough for me to drink once again with the monsters that mingle amongst us. The wonderland senses help my mind to make one more connection, one more vision, once more give and re-take in the midst of sirens and venom teeth that have driven me utterly mad with reason. Lightening was the patriarch head of unions and battlements closed down for construction. Listen to the fireworks deep underneath your insides.

There might have been a moment- a silence that slipped by- that I could’ve saved my beaten down brain. I missed it, a fantasy and all now is but a glimmer of pieces of skin sewn together by strokes of a cursed luck, a pinned down angel who doesn’t speak of the things she has seen in the coming ages to pass through the eye of a needle, standing on a clothespin.

I bled from the inside and was diagnosed as deserving such an apostle of gruesome Leviathan. Bare your tongue to my lips once more and there will be nothing left. Horror in an instant was meant to change me forever. The twinkle in my throat snuffed out by the lycan divergence from my closeted younger self.

I must cry without warning for the instincts I’ve seen that strike down the spirits of hallowed saints and servants to the undertaker. I whisper- to no one- my story, my groggy memory and steamy lessons forced to learn.

To be honest, my lovlies and lillipads- I beg to forget yet the script replies in my head to every nuanced step forward. I reconcile my anger through confused and drowning waters: nothing, as of now, is at all clear. So it is then that I join the mangled masses of the dishonest, on our knees we listen to the wind wrap around the crypts of the elite.

I have it not in me to tell the whole truth, as it all happened- even if I could remember all grit  and dank opinions- all harshness and dissonant screams that echo through the shallow hallways in which I trespass.

God, please don’t take off my clothes again, never asking or polite. Demands are high for the wanting and violation was always signed on the blank page of my memory. Never a glance to my eyes, never hearing my cries late at night once home again- take a shower to wash you out of me again with soap and festering. I forever unclean and not trusting: fucking you or anyone else in this profane world. I am full to the earlobes with acid eating away at my lifelines. I keep quiet, head down to the dirty carpet and try not to breathe too hard.

Maybe it isn’t a good idea to re-think the past, trying to figure out why me. Whom do I blame, who can I love without warning and coughing. But I do listen to the past as I struggle to find a path through the mire and myth- most of which I’ve blocked out completely. I wish for clarity and to truly remember, but my brain disagrees and is as stubborn as I am. No, you don’t understand and neither can I, through and through with the rain still hitting the shutters of that house with such force as to summon the dead.

I curse the ground I tromp on and yet smile at a cup of coffee, a pair of kind eyes while I wait in line for cereal, a moment to myself to regain control of the events of my past and present as they flash by. Could I have deserved this at 17? Maybe the roman gods would think so- or so it seems the world would want me to understand. The mad hatter has no more comment at this time.

I may be prone to lucid dreaming and pornography but I have a vengeance that shouts down like a tornado and will channel my historic pain through the ages and future losses and despondents. I haunt the wicked in me, as my calling permits me so, that is the wicked in you and you still remain unclear in my visions in the morning.