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,

hell,

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

toasts,

to those lost

dark eyed boys,

riding the sea

as if they owned her,

I watched you

in grocery stores,

cocaine drifting

sniffers

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,

amen.

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,

mattresses

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

aqueducts,

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.