Erotic Exorcism

Chewed through

with gnarling teeth

the strains of capital intake

for the wall street erections,

We, the supernatural ghosts and grand giants,

shaking and quaking

in holy pleasure

and connection to the

collective spirit,

stormed down upon

the idolized dollar

to tousle you awake

from your sleazy sleep

of conformity and comfort-

you hid from the visions of

the abused poor used for

sickening science experiments,

money making for the already

privileged rich bigots,

battered women

tortured swiftly out

of their natural beauty ecstasy,

put in barbed wire wicker baskets and

burned so as to hide

systematic oppressive patriarchies,

the prophetic

deemed pathological,

turned “sick” with

hyperbolized disorders,

quieted and subjugated

by anti-depressants,

choked and stuffed full of pills
to erase any notion

that diverged from mainstream media,

subtly quelling our jouissance

without a sound or shudder in the daytime

though I was woken from my dreams

to hear the screams of the dying

and the innocent betrayed

by the very people who had promised to protect them.

The few grisly lies repeated on our brainwaves,

protecting the top corporations

(now seen as people?

….

what bullshit)

keeping them safe and cozy

in their soaking blood money

that they munch on for breakfast,

our red veined pain

runs down their rosy cheeks

while they snicker

with hand shaking and

back-patting in coroner white-breasted suits,

at the mighty joke on the rest of us that

we let feed our

self-loathing

through the psychotic

television tubes,

breathing heavy

down our backs.

Tricks and trade

drowning out the voice

inside my head that

whispered echoes of

awakenings,

enlightened sex and

erotic understanding

of the puppet factory that is

selling apathy and violence

as means to enrichment.

I touched myself,

ever so delicately at first,

slowly stimulating my curves,

then relaxed into bliss states,

to fucking hard and fast,

fingers soaked,

orgasming out the demons

of the past,

punitive damages deterred

due to “too busy” corporate meetings

in the belly of the underworld,

car crashes on

mountain peaks

without lifelines,

moaning out my

mourning for the

agony I saw scribbled across

your face as you

lost yourself in

self-induced chaos

instead of choosing

kundalini rapture,

angels with wings that

they didn’t seem to

realize they had,

to fly away from

the glorification of drama,

raping our young to sex slavery

and the mechanical porn industry

that taught to take now 

and ask later.

I wouldn’t be the

mouth-taped shut girl anymore,

rocking back and forth

in the mire of your

sickened periphery.

I was not here

to entertain you,

but to take your hand,

along with my heavy heart,

up and out of the quicksand

and drive us home,

away from the aggressive environment

and the toxic consequences of the world

of the “real”

which was really just one of many storylines

to choose from.

Slow down sex eyes,

breathe deep and down to

your pelvic thrusts,

I shall enter you at

the base of the spine,

raise up your back

to your supple neck,

cuddling your broken bones

in my empathy,

soak you in sultry sighs

of intuition,

throbbing energy

under your waking skin,

fitting nice and cozy in your

fancy bloodstream,

riot and raunchy ricochets

to cursive tones,

didactic vibrations

that pulsed to the stars

and back,

sinking deep into

your wounded ground,

lifting you up to the

astral sphere with

delight and coming spirits,

together changing the

polluted earth with our

sensual whispers,

back to the flowering forests

and flowing clear waters,

silky marshes,

radiant unashamed passions,

beaming and blooming forth

to the moon,

erotic exorcism

until every cell in your body

ejects light. 

Embody the Drenching Electric

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow into the show of the chaotic collective a reality-eating monster. Madness lighting our way through this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and force the rain to seep through us, making us whole again and standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the fantastic riddlers of our day succumb to their ego and beauty sleep. Instead, embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 

Drinking in Pleasure and Headaches

And through the

tethered and tattered

noise,

your voice cut

the mayhem

like a shark bite.

The raven wrestled

to the ground,

wings pinned behind

her tortured neck,

she calls the crows down

from the swaying rafters

to aid in the quest

for western reproduction of

old north magic,

witches stirring their icy hot cauldrons,

humming odes of Isis

and that poor and plagued Persephone,

speaking words in

ancient slippery tongues,

languages long forgotten

in the panic strangled path

to fame and fortune-

hunting down the saints

with steal arrows spitting fire.

Though I know you

fucking heard me

in my lonely prophecy,

it seemed once the

words spilled

thirst on the page,

you picked up your own spite and

silly stolen syntax,

playing marbles

with easy monsters,

chugging liquored journeys

down your tasty throat,

left me

empty cans with oily fingerprints,

selling garbage at garage sales,

scissors stings,

raped muses,

eloquent slurrings of

my passion,

yet,

just enough sneaky lust

to keep my syrup skin bleeding,

I envisioned angels,

perceiving tantric music and pleasure mixing with

open wounds,

in the astral realms,

blisters and bumped heads

on the tall buildings that

fell from that wicked heaven,

faked well but I could always tell,

skies of pies that

shone bright with

glossy finish,

tasted like

seizure meds and Drano.

Masquerade masks

even needed moments alone

to wipe their tears

and drowned sighs from acting happy

in front of crowds,

applauding in delight,

but spitting on our shoelaces

as we came down

the sparkling stairs,

illusion of glam and glitz,

we paid dearly,

Marilyn Monroe with her

sex appeal and sad honest eyes,

signs of the agony cross and

captivity wasn’t worth it

to those poor and pitiful

phoenix girls,

suffocated in their own ashes

with no hope of

re-birth and

speaking their minds,

sputtering truths

before giving up breathing

at young ages.

Oh the nightmares

as of late,

raining down on

my erotic zones,

waking me up in

the middle of twilights

with shrill screams,

sirens blazing,

drugs and dying,

my father lost before

the war on cancer

came to my house,

banging anger and

frothing mouths

on the back door

even with porch lighting

and twinkling stars.

And you dared to

come to me with

quick fixes,

tornado warnings

when you didn’t know

that time passed through

the camels stubborn eye and

needles pinch the

wrathful skin.

You never saw the

sick children,

throwing up in bright hallways

covered with murals

of the outside world

they never got the chance to see,

ponies prancing and

taking tea with tiaras

and disney princess cups full

of sugar and chemicals.

There was no easy answer,

how dare you insinuate

my lack of care

with smirks of condescension.

I saw it all,

too much tapped in

to voices in my skull,

for my own sanity

was lost in the river

that rode you safely

to the ocean,

drinking in your pleasure

without a word spoken

between us. 

The Nightingale Sings the Blues

The shining eye of

that howling sun

left me parched and

pleading to the sky

for one more desperate

day in the lightning

that she covered my house

with,
in her

erotic holy

sighs,

heard only

if you were paying

half of your attention.

Our horned demons

of contraceptive clinical

controversy,

whipping and quipping whimsy

thick forked tales

and sloppy tongues

persuading us that

we were less than deserving.

I rose up to

exorcize fanciful fucks,

faking orgasms galore at teatime,

rhetorical subliminal

messages raking

breathing burned coals

on our delusion days,

skin so soft it

blisters in the long nights

of anxious waiting

for the world to start

its counterclockwise

rationale,

quick slick tilting of lands

beyond naked nursing sight,

but thundering in

sound and energetic brassy

magnitudes

with their sultry raspy chords.

We invisible astral bodies

quaking in rhythm

to each other,

bumping and humping

to the heartbeats of

earthen tides with

the moon in our wake,

we ache to be free of

the construction:

bars, cages, euphemisms,

sly manipulative beatings

and scissors sniping at

the staircases that we

wanted to descend down,

to the dripping dance floor in

glorious waves of euphoria.

I am a fucked harsh artist,

trying not to give a damn

about your cruel

dimensions,

obviously feigned

sweet salutations,

your wasted efforts

of arthritis and dementia,

mania lapped up like

dogs to lake water

on a humid day in florida

where you soak in sweat and

pant epitaphs just to regain consciousness.

Stop it,

enacting punchy pick up lines,

sleazy stereotypes scratched

down my bloody aching back in

the heat of the moment

left me deathly dangerous

on your floor that smelled

like post-vomit drinks and mildew.

I refuse to be another

no-name numbered girl

to hang in your closet

of accessories along with

bragging rights to

esteemed colleagues

of cool.

Fuck you, thanks.

I grabbed my weeping dress

disheveled

and got the hell out of there,

putting my shoes and socks

on in the car,

breathing deep down to

my swollen lungs,

heading off the panic

at first glace and second

sermon.

Marry him because you must,

the bruises are your fault

scoffs the dresser drawers

oozing their dirty diatribes.

Be her please

sneers the wives on main street,

snifters buzzing and swishing

their bent noses back and forth

to the ticking of the watchtower-

instead of just this silly stupid self of mine,

repeating the glossy sheen surround sound

media man.

Tourniquet temptress

has a hard time with trusting

anyone because experience

has taught her that no one

ever stays,

due to deadened eyes,

death certificates,

cold remarks

because it made you feel

better to put someone else

underfoot than

find glints of hardened

truth in your own fucking face

in the midst of rites of

religion and politic propaganda.

Thus I closed my

tainted eyes to

your twisting lies

and looked northward

into the moonlight,

awakened away from

the malice and

coffin banging hypnotics

that made snide

remarks in the echoes

of consumerism.

You tasted like sweet Spanish moss

after a hurricane,

damp and foreboding in

its voodoo swing,

halos falling off their filthy

angels,

floating downstream

to some new horizon

where the twilight

makes loves to the sea,

and I felt that warm

hearth sense of home

settling gently down to

my tingling toes,

filling me up

with reverence and

glittery glow as

the grandfather clock

waves goodnight through

the gloom

while the nightingale sings the blues. 

For my father, to Mr. Gin

Arithmetic resting on bones,
the image in the hungry mirror
ate through the glass,
the testy torrential environments,
the 6 cups of stale coffee.

Festering free from
breeding hierarchies
and self-loathing
mangled minds,
clucking cosmetics
winking to each other
at the downfall of man,
basking with teething rhetoric
and blinking lights,
the melting apothecaries
nod their hurting heads
to symphonies
played out in ancient opera houses
with crushed velvet cushions,
all around the singing globe.

My dads laugh boomed and
echoed through
my rainy head,
reminding me of yuletide angels,
happy endings and spicy foods,
frolics in the streams of my childhood,
lightning trees,
frost and grins,
bear hugs and safe hiding places
away from the cold concrete.
Then with an ache and a shudder
came ferocious visions of
enacted sorrowful holocausts
set to the tune of
blazing trumpets,
dying to be reborn
in ice and anthem,
we raise our
stinging lips
soaked with dire and
diverse tears
for the loved ones lost and dead
that we remember
with sad smiles,
eyes that open croaking windows
and rusted shut door frames
of limbo planes,
scary ether monsters
playing hopscotch
while sipping our blood
if we weren't paying attention
to the crusty crucifixes
hanging in the haunted hallways
of the machine age.
Yet,
We still choose to dance
in rapture eloquence
among the delicate details
between earth and heaven.

Melting Mirrors

The mirror

melted and oozed

its own vibrating reflection,

down the walls

of my hungry,

breathing,

thirsty creation

of a haunted bedroom.

Breathing beast and fire,

morphing identities

into formula fragmented

fancy poses of surrendered apathy,

middle aged men snacking

on paper dolls,

for shame on your sadism,

syrup and sexed blood

staining my springtime dresses,

fights with fists,

cruel words

made me slump silent

though I craved to

yell out in witching twitching

wildness against

the torrent tactics

of steal and

the malicious fortune hunters

with their sickening winking

blurry eyes.

So I hurricaned myself

from my sullen undead slumber,

contorting curvaceous concoctions

of pleasure and breath,

groans loud enough

to wake the house,

along with the creaky

floorboards,

the grandfather clock

banged on in the hallway to its

very own syncopated sweltering rhythms

causing us to be late,

your mouth on my juicy hips,

tongue between my thighs and

erotic cries,

teeth on my neck as you

thrust deep and slow and the headboard

urges us on and moans out the chorus,

though teatime is passing swiftly

with the pastel parental figures

shaking their angry watches,

cautious steps I enter

through the kitchen window

and dabbing the corners

of my delicate red mouth

with the cranky crusty napkins

of the mainstream media.

The panic attacks

ever heaping their

festering sores and

religious rites down

heavy on my

pounding migraine head,

I ate through you

to the other side of

forgiving myself

for staying,

allowing you to speak

so harsh to me,

this way and that,

repeating vicious patterns

made into origami

bouquets of blue and pink,

fevered flowers

that I cant remember

the names of

in their screaming silence

so to keep me up all night,

in the alleyways,

mischief and mayhem,

my fierce stubborn resistance

for the brain beaten down

by chemicals and despair.

To the life lived out

in raspy

wicked passion,

we raise our feisty glasses

to drink in another

fucking hot and humid day.

Pant and dancing out

of coffin nightmares,

superstition sex,

mirrors and warped reflections,

we the weary waking

can change our sorrowful courses,

directions mazed

in requiem aside,

we create the future

with miracles and light.