Gypsy Translation

and in that fall drizzle,
I heard the echos of my father,
through that Lucifer fog,
faint and coughing.
Between the real and reality
was the wicked and delicious
space of imaginary and illumination,
there in which I stared down
the eye of the snake,
and stripped naked,
dancing free of the chains.

Was there a dawning harlequin,
a shaking wet dream
to wake up to?
I was there in the awakened state of the
Mind’s Third Eye,
the chaos stilled to a game of chess,
motion slowed,
and time dripped
through my fingers.

The haunted spat out
their dischord,
sex addicts and
their cum stained sheets,
prophets and witches
thumping blood through their veins
like the moon pulsing out the tides
of yesterday and tomorrow,
and I panted with
circus fever and gypsy translation,
screeching heroin and
multiple orgasms.

In the year of the rotten pig,
I ate sex to the sweet tunes of Rachmaninov
and the crunching of bones.
With memories masquerading
as raven requiems
I drank myself into
the stupor of the saints,
a cacophony of unrequited cadence and heracy.
I love the smell of
dying patriarchy,
slick cologne and the
cum of the ancients
fades to a mere whisper.