A Madhatter Toast

Ode to the People:

Cheers my
sisters and brothers!
Lets raise a glass
of absinthe or
bourbon straight,
margaritas on the rocks
to stallions and cigarettes,
fairies in trees,
Irish whiskeys with jigs
in the twilight.
Here’s to Salem witches,
their poor bodies burning,
and especially to those
prophetic perverts,
dragons in an age
of dying magic,
we rock back and forth
with the tide.

And here’s to the believers,
I can respect that faith
though my dad died
young and left me stranded
so I revolted and spat on the ritual rites
of mainstream media religion
and then,
well of course,
in the fall,
fell for an Order Oracle,
faith folders,
rock paper scissors
rapes by
robot masochists,
of sorts,
and over in
my bedroom lay
thinking of
the ceiling fans
in rooms of
my daughters round the world,
abused and befallen,
I danced a long
bloody waltz
for you in
collective consciousness,
I performed for
the chessboard,
you asshole,
not your raspy idiot
hanged man,
not the high mighties
and their
grasshopper injectors,
I cast you out,
demon fool.

And drinks
with extravagant lovely
to those lost
dark eyed boys,
riding the sea
as if they owned her,
I watched you
in grocery stores,
cocaine drifting
under fevering festering
florescent lights,
lifting ladies skirts
with licking lips,
snickers and many snarlings,
blisters and boils,
plagues of old heresies
holding you back,
and ahh
fuck it,
just dive in
and let the water
wash over you
with well and welcoming
in the moon
and the night,
healing your scars,
our wounds,

And holy shite,
I almost forgot,
c’est la vie.
Lifting cups to moist lips,
roasting sweet elixirs,
here’s to the
people from out of the woodwork
staggering out of the wallpaper to
wrestle the angels,
they come,
in shouts,
in soft voices,
late stirrings,
tunes played loud
through headphones,
on futons,
slurred along with
sloppy mouths,
tongues etching bodies,
tight cunts,
deep fucks,
ink stains.

To the British
comedy tv shows,
played at 4 in the morning
when no one else
seemed to be aware
of our screaming planet,
aching for release,
dripping pleasure
over sheets,
in hotel rooms
with whiskey sours.
To the earths
revolutions round n about
the universe,
metaphysical planes,
stretching and moody,
drinking way too
much coffee,
giving handjobs
on horrible
orange shag carpeting
with metallica
on the phonograph.
To origami flowers
given to first girlfriends
of estranged
lesbian tendencies.
To the masculine
the builders of
great art and photography
that left her
with a tear
raining down,
ecstasy and excellent,
hard huge cocks,
wrapped round the thick thighs of time.
To orgasms in
the mornings,
on the way to work,
in bathroom stalls,
grease pits,
office supply closets,
hands gripping bedposts,
asses slapping hard,
thumping with
pulsing organs,
heart and lungs,
bones and requiem.
To the glint of purpose,
a path,
a non-suicidal moment,
an end that’s always and already
a beginning,
to the troubled
in their weary ways,
raise a glass. 

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