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