Filthy Angels, Monster Breathe.

You've got to give me
a break,
a sentence set apart
in time,
at least a ghost to
talk to in the night,
when I dance.

I don't understand every one
of my waking moments,
much less the nightmares.
I watch Kate tortured
in front of me,
French resistance,
so many burning bodies,
always throughout time,
the witch trials,
like my attempts at sleeping,
just prolongs the nights
and the Court sits high above.

What medicine is there
for that prophetic knowledge
from the ethers
that comes banging on the door
each evening?
You would call me odd,
crazy even,
you must in some moments,
in your head,
over and over,
and I grow weary of the sound.

And I told you months ago,
in the old apartment,
I had a bad feeling about
this cancer,
only 2 years,
seems like it's own
fighting this thing
we can't win over.
I already miss parts
of you that haunt me
in their small deaths,
dear brother,
parts of me moving on too,
tis the result,
as down the rabbit hole
we go even further,
into dark and and certain
Hatter madness.

The candyman drinks
his choice nectar,
a living death,
the puppets in their corners,
stand ready to fight,
blood bathing and caging
those beauty filthy angels,
raping her and laughing,
Was this just a game to you?

Boredom reeks,
We the ever over-stimulated
by a culture
that pretends to care,
fake metal,
and a man in the middle honey,
just a lie,
wrapped in tinsel,
with lips, tits,
and now has learned
the magic art of winking.
Learn to crave better soon,
for I grow faint
due to the heat and construction.

Calm down monster,
and breathe,

I Am Unknown

The sorrow,
ever swimming,
takes me down to the corner,
digs me a hole
to drown in.
The cancer's ever-taking
what it wants,
doesn't worry about
the soul within that's
ready to shine at any instant.

And those lovely wrathful
Wall Street Prophets,
their voices,
our voices,
finally being stamped on the ground
in protest,
being heard.

Though it still seems
violence and inhumanity reign
in the places of power,
the money jar
being the cookie jar
for the Select Few
and the human rights violations
in the streets of our downtown cities
and in the prisons nearby
are small prices to pay
for a corporate fucking agenda?
May no crooked corporate monster
debase our art and infinite creative power
again. Amen.

There's such risk
in gypsy training,
queering and healing,
must keep looking to the light,
even though the dark is thrust
upon us,
so heavy.
Giving and sometimes
not even getting the
teacups and saucers back at parties
you throw.
take and taken.

My God,
have we all become
such sinister danger animals?
The shadow grew into a cold
monster overnight,
as I lay,
staring into ethers.

Wonderland repeats herself:
I take blame only for the madness
of the Hatter,
the rest is syrup,
darkness and orgasms.
The vampires whisper
in my ear again,
I follow them down
that ugly dank hole
in the concrete,
Daniel and his lions,
me and my serpents,
wanting to shine on you,
one last time,
before I leave here.

I want a kinder tortured soul,
no more brutal battery
to my characters,
now and then,
as of late,
and even back when I remember
times being better.
My intuition doomed me
because damn it,
I knew better with
moon slowly crashing to earth
and my eyes growing sad
with your half-lies.
Just wanted a bit of fun really
with insane gestures,
new sex positions,
and obscure references
to propaganda and the media
mouth hungry machine,
eating away at our senses,
teething on our bones.

Didn't you know?
We are made through
fire and ice,
a wicked angel's alchemy.

The desert night
is calling us back,
to the ground,
the slurring rain
drenching my skin,
covering my wounds,
making me feel holy,
just for one magic moment,
breathing in,
letting it out,
a road towards
final freedom.
Follow me?

Sex Mouth.

In the mirror,
did I mention,
I had a dream and you
were standing there,
in the reflection
beside me?
There are others
further back,
in the mist and memory,
that linger,
and are quickly taunting
my patience,
taking me down,
down to hell
with every early morning coffee.
I promise to try to forget,
and dance out the ugly.

you nightmares,
the fear and the anger
quickens my breath,
growing impatience at apathy,
it sickens me.
Look me in the face,
with brave and vulgar passion
and say what
you have to say,
goddamn it,
the preacher mounts his pedestal,
the king his throne,
the corporations and
their psychopathic tendencies,
appetites for cruel mind diseases,
whilst we the suffering,
the real people,
slave for their green tyrant dollar
that fits snuggly in the pocketbooks
of the dead cement golden calf machine,
who gets an erection from the grand sight.

the hanged man suddenly
opens his eyes and
gives me a wink
with his skeleton beauty eyes.
He smirks a Cheshire's grin,
starts to beat the voodoo drum,
forgets his worries,
let's the pleasure pour over him.
Hands learn to feel free to wander,
the secrets you keep from me
start to be forgotten as my heat rises,
the rhythm of the night brings
us back to bodies closely intertwined,
panting in my ear,
God I love that.
Could I ever get enough
of that sex mouth lingering
next to my skin?
Not likely soon,
these are vampyre days
and nights of moans and moons
and laughter,
and fucking in long stockings,
and truths spilling onto
the carpet mixed with cum and venom.

You think this is just pretend?
Honey, this is just me
licking round the top of the
glass with my tongue,
havent even taken a sip yet.

My sex is deep I think
because I've wept so,
though I've explored the heavens also
and their depths are even greater.
The universe of sexuality
is vast and drives me deeper daily,
I strive to keep up,
even so,
it may consume me,
in the ethers.
I am ready.

Let Me Sway

The entertainment of it all,
kept me distracted,
from the growing pains,
twisted pill brains,
the mad hatter stains
on the carpet.
I'll find a way to groan all night,
slow dancing,
taking me away from the darkness
that suffers me and
seems to forever invade my vision
and sleeping patterns.

I can understand Oedipus gouging
his eyes out in weary wrath,
though there may yet still
be beauty to be found in the twilight,
with shivering and quaking
of our anatomies,
the energy frequencies of
fire and ice,
played by a traveling circus
speaking in tongues,
strong fiddle and much
vodka drinking and licking of spices
out of the air.
The gaiety may be
just beginning.
I felt a rise in the weather warning,
the Moon's even lurking angry,
The Women around me grow hungry.
We crave to be lifted out,
bathed in our own nights
of lust and light.
We ache to be fucking heard.
The desire rises to my teeth
to pump blood,
move my body,
hard pressed against yours.
To write the Machine down,
brick by brick.
If I must alone,
I will.

My muses and music may change,
but once I regain concsiousness
from the heartbreak of it all,
I engulf in flame
and start over.
The Phoenix weeps for me,
and I thank you for that.

Enjoy it.

I know that I worry too much,
but I had lost my father
in the mire,
and the cancer had sunk down deep,
now playing new games,
in the coming seasons.
What was I supposed to do?

I don't sleep much,
and yet I still see light,
sullen beauty,
in the street,
leaning on a lamppost,
slurring mechanics in the City
but getting dirty down
at closing time.

Freaks fucking,
getting bad habits,
cuming and dicking around,
eating and laughing
late into the darkness.

You are glorious,
sweat and skin.
Tis enough self-loathing,
you give light to the people
around you,
don't you see that
through your gin and tonic?
Your sad eyes let me in
on your secrets
I'm not blind,
not yet.

I have fierce wrath welling
up inside as I witness
daily the unneeded soul-killing,
hatred and violence spreads.

Baby, life is hard,
I know the pain
you suffer.
I've loved and lost,
was used and abused,
indeed given against my will,
and taken away from hope altogether.
These visions are
ticking clocks,
candles flickering
we enter as always,
through the looking glass.

Relish in the
utmost pleasure.
Forget your troubles
through soft touches,
sensual slumber,
desire and mixed rhetoric,
slurring of our words,
love or lust or whatever,
architects of the underground.

Phantoms breathe deep,
lose you and me,
in the heat,
staggering away,
breathe quick,
seeking to loose the battle,
give in.
I can take you away,
for a moment,
Enjoy it.

Somebody, Move.

Slave girl trade
kept me up last night,
the world is weeping,
and I listen best at nighttime,
when the shadows wander, and
the mirror haunts
with staggering,
I can't stop looking deep,
yearning for even deeper down the rabbit hole,
hard and wet and deep,
but what if I don't want to stop?

The Salem witches are awake
and on the move,
still sizzling from
their wounds,
they start to come alive,
burn again in the moonlight,
as you start to moan again in your sleep,
beautiful sounds of unconscious pleasure
awake within you.

Though we start
to notice the mass hysteria,
the twisted tea parties
that are starting to piss off the Mad Hatter,
the smell of pure upheaval
and revolt was
starting to course through again,
these tired old veins,
still always hear the calling.

Make no mistake,
this is a new level of inferno,
I'm watching the
fallen angels in my head
turn into machine drunk zombie dolls,
sadness turns to
self-loathing and despair,
stop this dark force at work
in the dungeons of our deficit,
and the puppet masters for
the Principal are laughing ever still.

Addicted to sex
and the rush of pleasure,
I hunger for spirits
not afraid to fuck deep waters,
expand our horizons,
we can travel and change,
become misfit gypsies
in quite the traveling
masturbatory habits disclosed
and prescription pills
letting the mind wander
and weave,
out into oncoming traffic.

I will let you overcome me
just because it felt good
to be wanted a little,
I guess.
Vampires twisting in nightmares,
cancer hot flashes in the corners
of bathroom stalls,
heavy sighs and so on,
the sickle comes down
again on our prophets of the twilight hours.
We stand by and watch
the rite
played out over our bodies,
and say nothing.
enough noise.
Somebody, move.


Where's my fucking pen?
Struck by a hurricane tornado,
blood from the sky,
misfits become
Dante's suicide trees,
white cedar,
sharp blade to the skin
as the leaves fall in autumn
and the bark rips away
from the trunk
begging for mercy.

I weep for you
rebel rolling drug dealers
with the mist in your eyes
that tries to hide your self-loathing
due to abuse over the years,
the Father hits her over and over,
you watch,
and it breaks your soul into pieces.
I hear those hounds
haunting you in the darkness.

It festers me so
to see the sorrow
drift in and out
of your eyes,
like sipping hot coffee,
it burns all the way down
your spine.
We can make each other better,
angels falling,
seraphim luring me
to the cross,
we land on the rocks,
and the lighthouse
dims with a wink and simple
twist of euphoria.

The torture of our women
in better homes and gardens,
we stay silent,
until all the light
is drained from their soft sad bodies,
sick humiliation
of half our generation.
Though in suddenly waking,
you realize that if one aches,
we all drip blood,
just a little even.

Connection is the door
to freedom and sexual divinity,
you already know that,
deep down.


Speak boy,
I crave your mouth to open,
pouring out your mad histories on me
with lips parting,
words thumping out of you,
this language creating your reality,
focusing your heritage,
limiting and expanding your experiences.
I pray you then, Speak.

The fall came late that year,
heat spitting,
the earth stumbles
to get back on her aching feet
just as we hear the wild women call to share space,
sit in a circle
and count astrological signs and symptoms,
phoenix and sphinx
swap stories
from the kings of Babylon
to the interstate travel on
a Friday night
when the kids and their curb appeal
leak out into the city,
cop cars sitting in the dark,
whispers of the next meth lab bust
and the baby drowned in the cold bath water.

Smirks in the nighttime,
slow motion magic,
I move towards white knights
though they were always without their armor
crying in crawlspaces
and throwing up on my bedspreads,
thus maybe they were just cold marble angels
standing next to clocks
in the hallway,
and hat stands growing impatient
for the party to end
so they could go home to their wives
who wept quietly in bed,
pretending to be asleep.

I Awoke in Magic Harlem

I awoke in Magic Harlem
and found myself,
hours later,
waking witches from their
dank slumbers,
they whine and whimper
in their sleep
as time ticks on
and almost forgets them,
though I never will.

Damn those exhausting visions,
I see the tortured astral souls retching
in bathroom stalls across the globe,
silent tears shed by the angels in the attic,
my mind their sweet sanctuary,
for a moment,
in the midst of a maddening world.

The pain is drinking me mad,
sweeping through my spine,
you are killing me.
Burning our amazon,
our prophets in tribal earth tones.
You raping me again in my sleep,
suicides racking the shelves in my head.
I will relearn my prosthetic machinery,
and play the game too well,

Even so,
I'm panting in love with you,
the moon meets her artistic equal
in a flashback of liquor cabinets
and a deep moaning morphine melting.
I tried to just relax and
let you come over me slowly
but this girl got to get up
and fucking move.
I dare you to fall for me,
kiss my mouth and drip art with me.
I'm tired of trying to sit still,
dead coffins and our
reincarnations as wallflowers.

My dad was lovely too,
an orchestra of spirit and
brilliant noise.
I know though that he died loving us
more than the earth itself
and all of heaven.
He seems so far away,
even in dreams he rarely lingers.
It's been 5 years, and
I still may never forgive your god
for taking the Father away from us.
I ache in anger and sorrow daily.

And yet,
my cheshire grin
hides my secrets well
from my ever watchful audience,
and I thank him greatly for the compliment,
until the mask becomes so tight
that I can't take it off anymore,
and I suffocate under
the laughing siren
while the chime on our
grandfather clock counts to ten.

Lay Me Down Deep

Shiva woke me from my sickly slumber.
I asked him to repeat himself
because I was half-dreaming
of hats and other frisky filthy things
when he first stormed into the room
and spoke.

"I call you back to awakening."
My eyes, once again,
open and succumb to the
Magic that surrounds
and runs through me.

Take me home,
lay me down in shadows,
kiss me like you
mean it,
breath and myth,
chaos and hydra,
carry me with you
to the labryth and leave me there.

I won't mind to shed a tear and
learn something "simple",
like letting go of dogma
and danger complexes,
fear is foreign folly
and must be unlearned.

Darkness overcame me,
car wrecks and flashbacks,
scavenger hunts for that
poor little girl,
who was found dead in the morning,
stuck in the river Styx,
the bow on her head,
bobbing with the tide.
8 ball in the far left pocket,
whiskey sours after long days
at the office.
Standing in the mist,
smoking an entire pack of cigarettes,
waiting for something-
to drag you to your feet.

Welcome to the 9th House of the Blues,
Your awakening
is coming for you soon,
with a sexual shudder
and a smile of relief.

Kundalini Christ and the Vampire Thirst

Shouts and shadows
echo in the deep,
I hear the tremblings
from the far side
of the smoky mushroom.
Christ wanted a tarot reading
and so we sat on the floor and
I drew cards amidst the cacophony
of identities that I coughed through
whilst Hierophant and Change
whisper in tongues with
the Aeon playing Vivaldi on the violin in Venice.
It may have been centuries ago,
but I still remember
that smell of spices
and WitchDoctor masks in the air.

I'll set the metronome,
ever stirring up the rogue supernatural,
and weep for the rising death toll.
You spend your nights resting
on her grave thus to remember
a once brilliant illusionist for the madness,
the surge of artistry that pumps
through our throats,
taste of silicone and sage.

I purge you of that dank festering loneliness,
opening up kundalini magic,
sorcery of it's own time,
centuries of vampire hunters
and blacksmith cannibals
eating out your heartstrings
and laughing in the midst of Noah's flood.

Fine. You win.
I cave in to the creator,
rook moves three spaces forward,
though he may be in some gothic frenzy,
black robes cutting off circulation of blood
and the electric pulse quickens-
I begged you not to,
but you did anyway
and thus welled up within me
a wrath thirst of the vampire variety,
taunting me to give till I am dry,
always not telling you something,
with a faint glisten in my eye.

Black Swan Syndrome

Visions came in deep,
my body engulfed in lusting flame,
tasting the sky,
the moon in her glory days,
she sang songs with smirks
and winking eyes,
though now somewhat distraught-
the image of Heath Ledger's pills,
spread on the floor like the legs
of the red queen,
their government sanctified yellow bottles
with the white caps,
his poor blessed body
giving up on itself in mid breath.
The moon cries,
My god no more, I cannot bare the sorrow.

Some of our falling angels
are catching 'Black Swan' syndrome,
we scratch and twitch,
festering to madness under the
great pressure,
the strain bleeds out of our wrists,
razor's edge becomes the New Youth Religion,
my nightmares grow ever closer to waking up.

The mad hatter opens his one circus trained schizophrenic eye
to find that he's been,
ever so delicately,
placed in a vampire crypt
in voodootown-
The ground around him aches
to speak of blood
and rapture melodies,
syndicated sins
and the trademarks of paranoia.

We seers crave the dark,
its light touch on our skin,
soft voices in the night and
Edith Piaf on the radio.

Alchemy and the Pyramid's one good eye

For my father,
to Mr. Ginsberg with your radical feeling even with the concrete in your hands and the blood in your stigmata. And to the mirrors in all of us staring back through the eyes...

My Fellow Torrents of space and please God immunity to pill addictions, my brothers in Nashville, painting signs, screaming in your brain for mercy- I hear you in my sleep and dance out your angers and sorrows on carpet floors, city halls across the northeast, hotel rooms in swank cities in Maine.

You kingdoms without castles, I praise your illuminary methods- we smoke and fuck, feel free to live, possessive of our each breathing moment, I am old.

To haze, we raise our hands, count our holies, laugh and spit on sidewalks with cigarettes and the sky abandoning you and I in dustbowl Georgia, and we turn into the night as she takes you down. Be aware, ever patient with our falling angels- the circus trains their animals, shock treatments, beast tamers, purple pills and coughing, hacking, vomit, and swirls of the saints.

I miss my father who died with a whimper in a parking lot in Minnesota. It may be true that I am a glimmer of him, though time and fog pass. And yet the madhouse calls, creeps into dreams and fucks me when I least expect it to.

There were rapes in kitchens across even my America, I rocked back and forth to blind out my eyes of these crimes against, truth be told, us. In the end our sisters and friends- violent violet acts held in suspense in courtrooms in Ohio, Texas, Kansas, and on...not guilty verdicts for repeat offenders and women writing on walls of bathroom stalls on my trip through massachusets about their monsters, sexual abuse and bloody faces.

You know these girls, kiss these phantoms in the night, give them pleasure after the war crimes are over, bringing them light, my gentlemen and ladies loverly.

Reclaim your knighthood in the evening with spiced rum and matches of chess, sitting on a dock in rhode island, listening to Edith Piaf on the turntable- we talk Faust, the magician, the curse we carry through the nightfall. Hollow the walls, we light them electric with syrup sweet kisses and sex and hot heavy mornings.

Russian dolls are calling out to their masters, striving for rebellion, revolt the puppet hierarchy and their breathing habits, their dank creditors, their feeble mindless chatter; Orphans unite and together take down that foul beast brother "sin"- the guilt to heavy, not fucking worth it.

Laugh out loud, forget fears that leave the Hanged Man to cry further. Rise above your five senses, my fire brethren, I beg you. Heaven is in the breath, the moon sends her love- Leave the Voodoo up to me.

Wacky tours of Chattanooga give us glow that festers us awake, wide eyed we succumb to rythmns of hauntings and smoothe melodies. Bend and twist with me, we together are divine. Stretch it out, make it last, give in, against better judgment even, and leave panting and open to experience the beauty the world arround you has to give. Gypsy friends, Roma- hear me, through the blood lost and the harsh water, we move and carry forward, masked and shaking.

High heels, lipstick seraphim, giving blow jobs on 9th street, sisters in brothels putting those stockings on, mothers having sex with their husbands in Nebraska, laughing together afterwards in the shower. I praise you! Lesbians in downtown Boston holding hands brings tears of joy to my eyes every damn time, I praise you high! You are majesty in a moment.

In alleys with beautiful women, cum and fuck and asshole and serenity, mouth, tongue, lips together and apart. We collide and witness sublime forensical fantasies, alchemy in the form of the ever- changing eye. The pyramid still winks at you from under the sand and water in desolate dreams. The dragons of fire and ice awake and smoke, glisten in the sunlight like a stream in Mumbai

who starts to talk to the natives again after many years of silence: talks of the coming storms, great fissures in the crust and sky, lights and howlings from deep within the earth. The great war is upon us. Foster the twilight, it's time to wake up.

The Witch Doctor Visions

I was born into the hands
of a laughing demon
in the back room of an apothecary
in New Orleans
circa 1617.

Let it be known that
when the witch doctor stared
into my red eyes,
the moment of my first cries,
he sucked air into his mouth fast,
held his breath for 45 seconds
and then let it out with a deep sigh
that rattled the very walls
of that establishment
and then he groaned in disillusion.

I knew what he was thinking
and thus I responded
with a haunted growl,
the flock of ravens
sitting on the tombstones
across the street
took flight in whispers
and soft hisses.

in a small village in
modern day Pakistan,
a rebel for the white knight
mounts his horse,
shouts into the sky
an old religious curse
on the land
and leads his soldiers
to the center of the town-
he was told to leave no survivors
and he is a man who follows directions.
I could hear the screams
from where I lay,
mass graves leave an energy imprint
on our DNA,
Templar fever is spreading.

Approximately one hour after the slaughter,
a 23 year old man awakes
from his nightmare sweating
and turns to his Russian wife:
"wake up,
that fucking bastard
killed even the children
in that little town
with the tip of his
thrusting sword,
into their chests,
drinking their blood.

Soar with me to the 21st century,
watch the goth teens
down that one alley in Brooklyn,
shooting up heroin again,
standing in the shadows,
waiting for hot legs to walk by and bother-
just because,
"hell, there's nothing else
to do in this fucking lame town."

Sitting in my shower,
taking crawlspace intuition
deeper into wonderland,
I fall into the rabbit hole
and wait for the secrets
to unfold in the basement
where my astral body lands:
Joan bennet Ramsey and her father,
painted faces,
sad eyebrows and dark horses
swarm around me.
I cough and the man
standing in the corner
by the window steps into view,
he laughs and disgusts me.

I jolt awake and vomit out the sinister maniac
with the wild beast hair
hanging in his face.
I watched him murder that poor child
with a plastic bag and a hair tie,
and after a night like this one,
I will never be the same.
All the visions I have,
I carry with me into the daytime,
but I won't tell you every image-
most I take with me to the sea
with the moon
shining and smiling on the water.


Bloody love and tears,
Jesus- just look at me
and fucking say it,
I want to hear those
pill induced "truths"
spit out of your hot mouth:
you don't love me,
Boy doll stupid.

Kill me just once more,
please baby,
and ha-
write you out of my sucken spirit,
sink into the mad hatter
to stop the crying
and the horrifying sanity.

Oh, don't worry,
morning sickness,
sex between best friends,
I push,
you pull,
and come around again.

And now you sleep
while I feel you loving her,
hurting me and
pretending not to notice.
Daft puppet,
apathetic tyrant,
you make me so very tired.

I suppose I regret falling
in love with you,
happy monster,
you drained me of my self-assurance.
Knowing nothing anymore,
lie to me a little longer
because I need that from you,
I guess, hell,
I don't know.

Nightmare intuition
be gone
from my skull!
I loathe these images
that flash in my head,
jesus turn them off,
I beg you-
before I break
and never regain my fallen angel mythos.

And don't tell me
you understand,
because honey, you don't.
Schizophrenic mayhem abides
in the twilight,
ever lurking
like a virus that's
knocking at your back door:
"I want in," he screams,
"and I know you can fucking hear me."

Join the circus with me,
the inner freakshow in you
always smirks at me in the dark,
inviting my energy to slip inside you
when you're not paying attention.
And deep underneath you,
I know you love it.

The Truth about Mary

War times and magic,
the albatross suffers
from the working will
of a wanting world.

Dance me out of your spirit,
if you can honey,
with the rythmn moving
you ever closer though
to my open stomach.

Gothic aphrodisiacs,
blue amphetamines
with the red stripe
down the middle,
hot lesbians on the subway,
tearful goodbyes in airports,
dial 9 to phone a number outside
this hospital room,
tortured minds stumbling down alleyways, and
still many nations bleed
on the cement of our
white collared bellies.

Swear words in German
like fuck and cunt etched
into the wall of the bathroom stall
I sat in for three hours
while he decided whether to take
me prisoner as his hanged man:
crypts of dead pharisees
and godly hallucinations.

Creep through you,
slither in and out,
vertigo prophecy
and cheap liquor.
Goddamn you,
send me a white lie sign
because the Devil in me
is taking over,
and you like that,
don't you?

Anarchy and sex drives
just make me want to hide
in my closet sometimes,
close the door and breathe
so very heavily in the dark,
which I do offen
when you upset me.

Hide and seek,
theatre erections and perfume
that reminds me of winter and cum.

Wet bodies,
a tattoo of Ishtar,
the goddess of war and sex,
on the back of your neck:
fucking in the bed of a pick-up truck,
in the grass behind your house,
on the concrete in your driveway,
even when I didn't want it,
you never heard me anyway
so I just shut up after awhile.

True in my memory,
as if time wore suspenders
and spoke with a cockney accent,
though in my experience she keeps
her mouth shut to spare you of her pain,
a deep red trench of grief and impotence,
and this I understand,
because her eyes give away
many of her secrets.

She was raped in that small red room
as a trumpet
sat on it's stand
and the ceiling fan whined about the view.

And yet,
she crawled out of the void
and re-entered the earth's atmosphere,
awakened magic through volcanic rebirth,
as I suppose her father had instructed her to do,
before he died
and was under the ground
somewhere in Michigan.

Harvest Moon and Lipstick

One miserable miscarriage later,
two spirits
dance in the flames
inside one body,
reflecting light
on an empty stage,
fedora askew I stand in stockings and lipstick.
I miss you,
in the waves
of dark that flow
over and in
and through me.
I see burning painted men
on the metaphysical plane,
angels and women too,
the plague is

Singing in my room,
swaying those two spirits again
up to the ceiling.
My mantra repeats:
on my terms
I will be passionate,
and forgive
in abundance.
You are young yet
and will not understand,
sweet monster
of the north-
drink your whiskey,
sip on wine.

Make me believe -
through the lies
and the humanity,
holy crossed staves,
Helen in the mirror,
she pays the rent,
and even has the heart
to sex you
though you don't deserve her.

But we were just friends
at a carnivale,
I caught your eye,
you stuck me on your wall to remember,
and I kinda liked it,
I confess,
and I'll write your heart out,
I don't mind.
Mais, c'est triste pour moi
regarder tout seul.

Muse Alice

Underneath the 12 glossy-eyed masks
of Judas,
I found out you were only
with an Irish whiskey chaser.
So I tried to forget
and instead fell on my ass,
somewhere between
a tremoring hangover
and a trembling dance floor,
grinding ya right,
lifting you up towards
the sky.

So wet,
dig deep,
find me out
until I shift again,
and you won't
remember my name,
I will make sure of that,
serpent skin,
howl me back,
let me go,
thrust into me until you get off,
then I'll leave you,
quicksand and in the night.

Lingering fingertips,
kundalini magic rising,
I wake you up,
you shutter with pleasure,
again and again,
I see fire and ice-
red and blue vibrate,
unite together,
inside of you,
inside of me.
Move with the current,
energy electric,
some sacred sexual
funnels through me
into you,
jolting your mind open,
light shines
between us in the dark.
Angels awaken to the sound
with Cheshire grins,
and the moon gets pleasure
from the sight of it all.

Twisting Twin Flames

I gave up my warm body
to you,
for the night,
howl to the moon
and back,
you gave me only
a fucking excuse
and the rhetoric of lying
that ate through my skin,
wanting to weep as I lay there,
expecting nothing
and thus receiving it.
Did you think twisting flames
together was going to be an easy game?
Even your brain curcuits
are stumbling around
in the dark,
looking for the answer I want to hear.

Too queer,
too fat,
too ugly,
too male,
too female,
too sexual,
too sinful,
too tempting,
and too crazy.

The same words rearranged
to imply a lack that's always mine,
and inside where I squirm from the truth:
I don't give a rat's fucking teeth about it,
I bleed with or without you.
The mad house
scores his whores
either way,
typical goddamn mammal-
bail when it's complicated,
rusty nails,
python-lined shroom trips,
sleazy liquor and jail time.

Dancing in the Heat

Step out of the bar
at 5 in the morning
when she closes her
heavy thighs for the night.
You light a cigarette,
the match winks at the lamppost-
The men that always
seem to linger a bit too long
and stare a bit too heavy
talking loudly about your ass
as you stand there
and look at your shoes.

Pretending to not notice,
sneaker to snow,
sneaker to snow,
take the flask out of your
left breast pocket,
heave the liquor
toward your lips,
honey down your throat,
straight to hips,
and a rush of pleasure.

Morning cums forever,
spilling color across
the sky,
leaving stains on the moon
as she sets and
surrenders with heavy breathing.

The Soul grieving
its losses of virginity,
a child cries on
the corner of Madison
and a war zone,
torrents of timber
and concepts of masculinity
leak out of skyscrapers
at dawn,
jacked on coffee,
whack off in the shower
as she rises.

Earthquake dreams
and ecstasy,
drowning euphoria,
sucking dick
in the dark
on a dirty floor,
apartment complexes and
consensual lust
turns to tears and coughing up blood,
in the back seat of your car,
hounds of hell and love turned up on the radio.

The eye of the storm smirks
but says nothing,
the mourners gather
for yet another
funeral march for the goat
in heals and heat,
lipstick and circus,
in the middle of the day,
with handcuffs,
and the moans heard
through the tile and asbestos,
sirens and rocks,
denial of instinct and intuition,
sex and coffee
that you refuse to drink
even when offered
with eggs and bacon.

Slow it down,
vibrate through pleasure,
the tiger takes a bite
of your neck
and then invites you
to the shadows' masquerade,
all dripping
in water and moonlight.

Organic Cries and Records

In the dark,
I turned into the Harlequin Queen,
all animal rhythmn and intuition
funneled through
the sex hungry teeth
that kept me awake
early in the morning,
moon- caressed
sky beckons
me nearer.

Twilight begs forgiveness
no fault has
crossed her lips,
she'd rather take your wrath
and then lie to you
about the pain you cause.

In those midnight dreams,
heroin addicts
and their dead babies,
storms and grapefruit,
shaved heads and porn films,
green faeries
and bad business deals with
foreign powers
and the demons of machinery.

The mystics and their
mandrake potions,
kneeling at crosses,
healing STDs with lizard skin
and balsalmic salves
made in cauldrons in the
forests of eastern Europe
by the witchdoctors
from further north.

I hitchhiked through
the metaphysical plane.
There are burns
on your skin,
which you try to hide
when you're on a first date;
we carry our luggage with us.

The sages in the ground,
gypsies stepping
through the fire,
making you cum hard,
fight the patriarchy,
forget the meds
that are killing brain cells
along with
the liquor and cigarettes
you paid for
last week when you
felt ugly,
chained angels
still drinking the profit
steel hammer comes down
on the heads of the masses.
We barely escape,
and fuck in the shower
the rest of the night.

Slave market and
the stock exchange both
speak the same beast language,
bats cry in
the darkness,
the spirits glow in the moonlight,
taking my feet off
the ground and through
your aching system.

Filling in the dark places
with light,
we rock to the heat
of the drum,
back and forth together,
sex and records,
organic riddles of the body
and soft touches.
Fire begets ice sometimes,
and thus we are burning bright,
the rhapsody of my pulsing body
soon to become clear to you.

Sex and Sorcery

I dreamt of sorcery.
You died in your sleep
while Mary Magdalene
feeds the mockingbirds outside her
window and cries herself
into dreaming,
red robin
tied to a lamppost.

Night sweat,
dancing out
the bass,
sex and public stonings.
I lean in,
change your history,
keep you going
to the rhythm,
slow and steady, honey-
I make you wait
cause Im good at that.

Create the difference
you crave to see,
live aloud and fuck it.
Give in
or make do,
teacups with coffee in them
and lace lingerie,
black with pink bows,
and those boots you like.
Let's lift each other up,
we delve further
into time,
deeper inside the ocean.

Honest sacrifice,
the hanged man
swings back and forth
and you laugh
until the key fits
into your locked door.
And there,
standing in your
narrow-minded hallway,
which you fucking built
all by yourself,
is the goat with a grin
and death,
snickering at your expense.

Traveling Circus

Lilith's vengeance
on my breath,
I storm through
your body,
awake chakras,
open up
the dark and light places,
now to enter the unknown.

Under the ground
of the circus
is where we begin.
The caterpillar responds
in smoke:
Who are you?

Cloudbursts frame the sky,
we are dying
and you are shaking
your fists,
yet still our bodies
crumble like the
sacred mockingbird and bee
in their cages,
collecting dust and anger.

You smother me,
I regain consciousness
and you stare,
waiting for a fucking
thank you,
Judas lies again.

I woke up,
felt a doll pulled by puppet strings,
and knew something
was wrong,
stirring in my stomach.
My head is spinning
from the visions
that haunt me
through the swamp,
and that desperate fog,
ice on my brain.
We continue,
up the mountain,
our paths
creating beauty
in a hazy world.

I had a dream

Trembling alone,
I awake.
With a rush
you enter through me.
It was tug of war
with the monster,
crows flying low
in the daytime.
You looked up and to the left,
tilting your head slightly,
kind of reminded me of
what Oscar Wilde might've done
when trying to think
of the right word
whilst holding a brandy.

Dive in,
listen to the heartbeat,
reminds me of the house
we lost in the winter
of my early adolescence.
Now she
holds her head in her hands,
Pregnant scares
and Captain Morgan.
She prayed to a tornado sky:
God, I'm not ready.
He didn't answer.

Late nights dripping in
the moon,
we surrender
to the four walls
and the blacklight stage.
I entertain you.
You will miss it,
when the shadows come.

Nightmares wake us up,
we reach out in
the darkness
and find we are alone.
And yet,
I recall the soft touch,
the whisper,
the breath
heavy on my face.

Sad Eyes

Sad eyes one evening
lead to nine sleeping pills
which she took throughout the night,
each taking her to a new layer of Dante's hell.
Her favorite setting
was to run amongst the suicide trees,
blood drips from the young birch
and the re-birth
of the hierarchy of sins
is etched into the stone
of the collective conscious,
the vultures circle,
the martyr hangs.

Mad dogs reign,
the earth implodes under the pressure
of the storm a-coming
in the corners of the world in which
there is only darkess,
perpetual twilight.
Let them suffer,
the magistrate pronounces
over the loud speaker
and goes back to his
flask of bourbon
which he tells his wife
is just water and lemon juice.

Everyone is lying to you.
Wave your flag,
drink your poison,
thrust the knife in deeper inside of me,
twist it around
and make me wait.
I smirk and let you
take my life,
smile the Cheshire grin.

Give me energy
that sticks in my throat,
violence seen through
the needle's eye.
I will only ask you once.
Are you there?


Mister Blackbird,
believing he's a Phoenix,
performs Hari-Kari
in the shadow
that the moon makes on the earth.
I dance in his ashes
with my voodoo dolls
and lack of morality
as formally declared by The State.

War crimes,
suicide hotlines,
C.S. Lewis prays
to a fatherless God
and his friends
pretend not to notice.

The "Mary Me" mythos
takes another life and
I wake up in a bathtub
holding an empty bottle of
Russian vodka-
a pyramid tatooed to my forehead
and without a fucking clue
as to how I got there.

Voice Lessons

Midnight in the morgue,
awaiting Lazurus to rise again,
I spent the night in
a southern coma,
slurping tequila and
waiting for the devil
to show,
he does,
just 45 minutes late,
and that pisses me off.

The barn starts to throb,
pulsing vibrations
send the energy through the spine,
let the rythmn
be your religion.
Reconcile the demons,
stomp your feet
and feel the Earth move
through you.

We are chained
to the machine,
our fists turning bloody,
our tears still slave to
the demands of the government.

Prisons filling up,
no evidence,
no rights read,
and yet we are still happy hypnotized humanity
under the capitalist Big Top.
We are killing our collective consciousness
without even knowing it,
only ruin will come in the morning.

I weep daily now,
truth spat out,
mixed with tar and gasoline,
but dancing is better,
barefoot on the
white carpet,
sizzle with the heat
of the moment that is passing by.
I try to regret nothing
and yet live haunted-
Ann Boleyn
headed to the slaughter.

Visions and visitors

Drip young,
we wept in the morning
when the haunted stranger
with the ripped knapsack
left out of the basement window,
forgetting his red bandana and
taking the whiskey out of the liquor cabinet.

Ghost stories for kids,
the Druids in their black dresses
let loose in the graveyard,
pant under the night sky
and then left in the ditch
to die at sixteen.

Ginsberg left me hungry,
climb the mount
and surrender to visions of
blood spills and iconography.
Kill the creep,
martyr the saint,
and suck the angels dry,
just another day
in the hump backed whale,
breathing and sweating crazy.

Enter the Big Top,
split me right down the middle,
female and male,
freak that I am,
missing you and the monster,
and the shadows in my mirror agree.

My dreams are waking up
and demanding
to talk to management.
Let me in,
to smoothe you over
and forget the darkness
between us,
at least till the sunrise.

Low dreaming

Risk gravitas,
we welcome in the new python,
radiation snake
slithers over our heads,
twisting in the sunset.

The trees outside my window
are moving and talking,
their bodies melding together.

Music theory
and silence kept me awake,
though I tremble
in the darkness, always alone
at 3 in the fucking morning,
waiting for a sigh
or a sign, I guess.

It would seem
my mind will play chess
with the devil,
and not give a damn.
I awake in a strange bed
and then realize
I'm still dreaming.

Wild Work

Puzzle me
to the beating of your bones.
Lend me a soft hand
to spill my tears upon,
into the river they drift
and mix in with sand
at the bottom of the ocean.

Set me unchained into the wild,
feeling the rain on my
naked back.
I revolt,
while you reflect on coffee filters
and no.3 pencils
that you had in 3rd grade
when you caught that girl's eye.

Suffer me,
the blues swallow me,
and sigh.
I will feel the pain,
put on the Cheshire grin,
leap out of the window
and into the Moon's light.

The hanged man and the fool

I miss the winter,
that chilling of the spine
reminds me I'm alive.
Nothing quite like
teeth-chattering reality,
I suppose.

You make me move
slither in and out,
unfold with me,
take me to that creeping show,
that you know nothing
at all about me,
deep down,
in the bone.

I saw the Hanged Man
in my dreams,
lay me down,
thus to rise again.
The red dragon ever purging
within me.
The Fool is laughing
because he doesn't give a fuck.


The pain struck a chord,
a tension she felt in her back
and neck, crushing her chest.
Though she wouldn't admit it,
her characters are falling
through the hole in the wall
where the wind comes in.

And there's always a part of you
that wants to spit fists
and bleed,
and fuck,
and not indeed in that order.
So it seems to me,
I can't stare down the monster,
unless I become her.
The deepest low
I've ever known
comes crawling in the back door
hungry and impatient.
So I stand in the mirror,
waiting to witness this unknown creature,
to speak to this bastard beast,
in the dark,
and in the morning I cry slightly,
but my face still splits into a grin
as I meet the creep
for the first time:
he stands behind me laughing.


Tortured villages,
watch them burn.
The body bags line the streets
in my dreams,
turning into nightmares.
Keep it secret,
most of the time.

The drums keep beating.
We grind to the rythmn
out of instinct
and animal desire to survive.
In the winter,
we dine with the angels,
drinking gin out of the bottle,
free of puppet strings,
we recount the endless streams
of conscious collective visions.

We walk circles,
priesthood and circus training,
we are here to entertain
and provoke you to move.

Dark clouds forever plague me.
The darkness thickens,
the sickness takes without delay,
forget it all,
and it just haunts us more.
Skin grows cold and the hunting begins.
I'm drowning in heavy,
sinking low in the harmony,
dancing and coughing up blood.
What is happening to me?

A tornado almost ripped my heart
out of my body.
I miss my dad enough...
can't finish.
What else was there to say?
I suppose that my jaw clenches,
I feel the tears fall indeed
down my cheeks again.
Opened the floods in me, it did.

I will make sure that the puzzle piece
of me you hold in your hand
will disappear as soon as you
pick up another dirty sliver off the pavement.

Forever melting,
I take the fire
back into my mouth,
breathing heavy,
tantric eyes.
Lift me up,
forgive me and move.

Mind games

Forget me not fantasy,
the deep continues to echo
as I slip further inside
the waking cosmos.

I trip out the monster,
he sees me as his own reflection
in that some spoken mirror.
Taint me again,
I don't mind due to
the warmth of my skin
and my voice stretching
into the ethers and the hallways
of the Hierophants
who are only angels in the sunlight.

But every night
twilight came with a snide remark
and we change into
our dark creatures,
licking and fucking,
magic making with our voodoo
heroin puppet strings.
I ache to taste anew.
The moon agrees to carry me home
when I cannot stand up
straight or holy.
I'm closer than you think.

Her and Him

Here comes the water weeping,
I shake to satisfy the thirst
of dirty prophets and their beasts alike.
My voice is lost in the
clatter of the living and the dead.

When we close our eyes
we see fire and ice,
sex and religion,
holy and cursed,
fabrications of a mind twisted in pain.

I tempted death,
even laughed with him
in a bar shaped like a
chicken egg
in a small town called Nantucket,
near the swamps down there and to the left.

We ate gin
and shot some pool
with several showgirls
from across the street,
a little joint called the Opus Lounge,
where you can watch
silk slink off a table
23 times an hour.

Feast of twin flames

Forecast the rhetoric of the dying,
the saints gather in their shiny
cathedrals and gossip on
the year of the dragon and the
fornicating serpents that ring
the tower's bell.

I came from the deserts of Moses
and the swamps of New Orleans.
Chained to the Lord's table,
I stammered a prayer aloud
to Mary more for artistic vision
than begging for mercy.
All too much mathematics and cost efficiency,
not enough dancing souls and circus training.

The barn's burning,
the moon's howling for redemption
from the witness of the past.
Cave in,
Create her just as you want,
watch the fire lick her insides,
separate her from the angels.
She lies under the dirt in the ground,
sorrow swept through me with a smile,
and I laughed to myself.
The man in the corner
looks up from his black coffee
and top hat and just stares.

Astral rebirth

Let me tell you,
from personal experience,
that caging a vampire,
just makes her angry.
We resurrect the truly wicked.

The trial of burning the witch
has just begun.
Ravish the rafters,
dark pits in the middle
of the court room,
holding prison cells full
of our gnashing teeth.

We watch them burn,
their shadows scream
through the looking glass.
The machine breaks my mirror.
It shatters to the ground,
breaking my identity into peices
on the attic floor.

I am reborn broken,
and red eyed,
but alive and ready
for the Phoenix to rise,
the fires are raging
just outside my city.
I shut my eyes,
and smell the smoke on my skin.

War paint

New skeletons are marching
against the rythmn of the angels.
Teeth grinding,
sweat dripping,
bones crunch together
to break the staggering sunlight.

Knock, knock,
the doctor enters
to fix my fits of spirit.
You starve me
into silence.

Warpaint glistens,
footprints remark on the weather
and the whisper of anarchy.

The traffic light
is turning green.
Time is ticking,
muses are awakening.

Astral war

Stop it.
Your face is in my mirror.
Through the coffins
sunk into the ground,
We hear the cries
of their mothers
rip the twilight.
I watch from the ethers,
the tears,
the bloodshed,
nightmares on a feeding frenzy.

The ghosts in the hallway
are howling for their dinner.
The midwives are always
underestimated in a campaign
to silence the feminine.

My monster ate you whole,
and I said with a smirk:
You like it, honey
you can't lie to me.
Your wrists are open and envious.

And what if the traveling circus
knocks on your door,
demands your allegiance,
takes you to the metaphysical battlefield.
You ready?
Come on then.

- Megan

Fantasy blood

The waters are calling
for armageddon,
I inhabit the earth,
breathe deep,
in and out,
measure the distance
between fantasy and reality.

I write out,
then I bleed,
the ink stained red
with the anger and pain.
The mark of the demon,
etched into my doorframe.

Pleasure landed swiftly
and the black crows discuss
in hushed tones,
the battle of wits
yet to come.

He walked in through
the back door and coughed slightly.
It reminded me of home,
my sighs make the rafters shutter.
I crave a cold chill,
every so often,
when it rains.

- Megan

Monster Carnivale

The serpents of the stock trade
are still working their way
to the coffin.

I demanded, for once, an answer
and got "holy water" and
a broken champagne glass,
the shards cut my hands
like broken teeth.

Alice is calling
through her tunnel vision,
mask the devil in the mayhem rite,
whisper in my ear,
make me believe it.

Bleeding wings,
skating misfits on the ice
over the river Styx.
Smirk and die a little,
cry and breathe the moment in,
turn into your monster,
Let the fun fair begin.

- Megan


Waring witches doing that dark magic that they know so well,
eating my heart out, they fight my brain for control.
I can taste it.
That devil work teases me back home to my holy flesh,
my subtle ways of rabbit hole hopping.

My god, is there an escape?
I feel old and without a pattern to follow.
My path is non-existent.

I feel pulled and prodded
fitted into crawl spaces,
closed closets,
the furnace room in the basement,
the rafters of the attic
are stained with my blood and your tears.

My monsters are screaming,
howling for a change in the wicked weather,
a fucking break from the normative.

Can I stop the dying?
The angels disagree,
the verdict is still left out
by the trashcan on a Thursday morning,

- Megan

Voodoo magic

I miss you, volcanic spirit,
driving in and out of my reality and preference.
I awoke with a start,
breathing heavy,
take one, two, three
soft steps on the carpet,
and freeze,
wait for the shadow to pass.

I whimper over your
shaking body,
live again and breathe ghost-
you haunt me ever still.
Damaged and bruised,
red dress,
high heeled black shoes,
I let you drive me mad.

Factory smell,
stank way down deep,
iron and fire and spit,
meld together
in the ethers,
I can hear the screams
from above
here-sitting on my bed.

The walls drip my sanity,
I hear the pain around me,
in and through me,
let me make it better,
Voodoo magic.

Gender dialogue

I worship genders.
Trying to keep the inner clock satisfied, I bury in my sleep fragments of my self
deep down in the lands of dark dreams.

Glory days,
someone took a saw to my psyche and cut me in two parts, at least. Masculine and Feminine identities play chess in my brain, every move a switch goes off in my head and I shift gender. Hundreds maybe thousands of times a day, subtle fluidity. I have learned to hide in the paper trees of the inferno life, gender rabbit hole falling, with a few bruises to spare.
A drop of pain for trying to remember the feeling.

I must learn to move with awareness, slow and steady toward full awakening. My head opens, I accept my eccentricities and move deeper to the core of the soul, the harvest moon. Understanding the vastness of yourself opens you up to understanding the collective, the individuals that flow in and out of your kinesthetic space and body. Your dreams then become beyond you yet clearer than imagination. I learn to own my wonderland.

The chessboard speaks

In the cosmos, we intertwined, twin flames melt together. Our Egyptian brethren thrust us into the future, the ancestors fading back into the mists of heaven though we shout for them to stay.

The chessboard full of fast moves and equality issues breathes a sigh of relief, our soaked psyches gleam in the moonlight to explore and be driven on to create, to delve beyond the pale-faced corpses that sit in the graveyards over on east 11th.

The lightning inside me strikes hard and I shake, threatening to split full through into both feminine and masculine selves. I hunger for more when the creative collective begins to howl in my ear.

The monster ate my whole sacrificed framework and then I swallowed the red pill, went down with a cough. Haunted by the wails of angels, waltzing weapons of sanity. The doors to the masquerade begin to close slowly and now I must find a way to live with what I've seen.

2011 Tarot Reading

Method: One Thoth tarot deck that was shuffled by Megan and I. We took turns drawing cards for the month. Our intention was for the cards to show us the general vibes/keywords associated with each month. We recognize that these are very general impressions, but if one does a further investigation of the Tarot one may find that there are interesting correlations to astrological/astronomical events, as well as, present day institutions. We left these keys words for those to see if they get the same ideas about the cards and months as we do. We would love to see if any one out there has visions, dreams, etc that relate to these cards and their meanings.

Note: All of the words or phrases listed below were stream of conscious words about each card. 

January- Prince of Swords

science, stick with the machine, overcome small obstacles, 
control the id, persistence, control, 
seeing it through, scattered, angry, fractured feeling, 
hard work, steadfast, 
control of the fractured self. (Jan 2011)

February: 10 of Wands (Oppression)

warning card of self-defeat and inner oppression. 
Too much heaviness feeling. 
Anxiety/Apathy, stress from external realms of control, 
exhaustion, a general sense of heaviness, weight, 
feeling held down by time and karma. (Feb 2011)

March: 8 of Wands - swiftness

swift change in course, clear communication, 
overcoming communication problems, 
being direct and blunt about your endeavors or feelings.
It's quick and intense, things seem to be happening and opening up in various areas, 
more directed energy, focus, control  (March 2011)

April: The Fool 

freshness, creativity, embracing of complexity, 
connection with spirituality. New awareness, 
taking the plunge, going out on a limb, 
new things starting ventures, economies. 
Healthy naivety/humble and open to new experiences. 
Open perception/intuition (April 2011)

May: The Magus (#2)

ascension, creativity, metaphysical changes, 
beginnings, manifestation in the material world, 
power of crops, green-life minded. (May 2011) 

June:  Princess of Cups

Flight, impulse, giving in to whims, 
letting sensations take you somewhere, 
an opening of the senses, letting go,
 transforming, letting go of false illusions, false witness. (June 2011)

July: Princess of Disks

Birth of new ideas, grounding to earth, light in the darkness, 
finding inner light through creativity and sensuality. 
Deliverance out of darkness.  Growth, development, 
Help/Aid at hand. Feel strong, united. Connection to humanity. 
Looking back, reflection on past. (July 2011)

August: The Star 

new age, higher sensitivity, connecting the material with the ethereal. 
Spiral energy, awakenings, dreams, fulfillment,
 touching the divine, love and support, 
a peace of mind, nightly visions, lucid dreaming. (August 2011)

September: Wheel of Fortune

connection, electric, energy, fortune, 
sudden breakthroughs, realizations, sparks,
the path has shifted, 
divine help, divine connection, 
moving with the machine of karma or being stuck in the cycle. (Sept. 2011)

October: The Devil

Sexual energy manifesting, spiritual connection, power, 
creativity through divinity, connection to collective consciousness, 
edgy, red energies, a profitable darkness, playfulness, 
awareness through third eye, manipulation, powerful figures, authority, 
mastery over the material, being demonized,
jealously towards others or towards you, shifting identities,
(Oct 2011)

November: Queen of Disks

Reflection, the pathway to something new, 
understanding the process of growth and patience, 
connection to the divine, seeing a greater work in the process,
timelines, seeing the seeds of your future and past, reverie. (Nov 2011)

December: Prince of Cups

Watery floods, steamy release, quickness to anger, 
flighty, shifty, focus on trivial matters, fissure
aggressive, too focused on transformation, 
tunnel vision, forgetting important aspects of the bigger picture, 
focused on sexuality/affection. Floods of emotion, mass weeping
False attraction, vain sexuality, ignoring the lotus, closed chakras
(Dec 2011)