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,
checkmate.

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.