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,
every
fucking
moon- caressed
sky beckons
me nearer.

Twilight begs forgiveness
though
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
poison-
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.