The Mystic Moans

Chains, strains, and

drizzling drains

followed me home

after the earthquake

that hit hard on the 17^th floor

like a faucet gushing heat,

making tea

on a Sunday morning,

while dad was sobbing

into his shirt sleeves.

My body still

aches and shakes

in the wreckage,

ever left behind

with the ghosts still

moaning low,

keeping time

with the moon

and making love to

the mystic mayhem

that shook the rafters,

as I performed my magic

under the stalking eye

of the raven.

You were floating

away from me,

regardless of

my resonating howls,

even my vibrating prayers

betrayed me and

refused to sink into your skull,

melt pains away,

take us back to the days

when I crushed,

with mortar and pestle,

clover, flower petals, and grain,

that I had picked

in the forests of Michigan,

and the swing set erotica sleep

lulling me into deep dream states,

visions that made me scream out

when the sun set

and the dark took over,

settling in my eardrums,

humming venom

and prophecy.

Undertow Angels

Cathedral candelabras

strutted through my

ever-widening

periphery

in pinstripe suits

with spats and

winged tipped laughs,

to hide the fear

of the wrathful undertaker

with whom we played

peek-a-boo

until she grew

bored and yawning

in the twilight and

ended our games

of breathing.

Sighs at the back of the neck

made me want

to spill out all

the dirty things

I craved to do to you,

but I held my moan

inside my burning lungs

and let out a giggle

instead of

the lightning

sizzling in the ravenous space

between my heart beats.

In hiding winking mirrors

the electric steam boils,

we vibrate and twitch

with the aftershock,

death's undertow angel

hummed and swirled around my head,

and though I fought her,

straining my bleeding fingers upward,

grasping desperately for a hand to hold,

mixing molten energy and cosmic chemistry,

I could not

silence her scream

that cast us down,

drugged and dragged us underground,

never to sing again.

Candlelight and Asphalt

My nightmares

woke themselves up sick

with sticky alarm clock noises,

windows taken out

of their frameworks,

tiptoe tapping out

their despair

on the hardwood floor,

glass shards stripping

whilst I watched

their sharp edges twisting

in the moonlight streams.

I slumped over in my

queen size bed,

sheets

sweat sex soaked

by some brassy whispered man

who drank screwdrivers

and laughed,

to cover awkward moments and

my eyes staring

through his head

to the back wall of my room,

wondering when all this

silly business

would be over and

he could stumble out,

into the streets,

leave me alone

with my candlelight.

Whether you wanted

to watch or not,

I danced trauma

out the body,

flooding onto the asphalt,

the way music embarks

on a journey down

your insides,

in the heat of the

pulsing lights,

mirror and make-up masks,

ghosts in their taunting sanctuaries,

blood in vials,

singing out its sweet syrup requiem,

calling upon the angels,

wanting to again

tangle and twist

round bones,

thump in veins

that resurrected

ideas of hell of heaven,

depending on the worn out weather,

and the days and the way

waves of ether energy

circuited the brain.

I could feel myself

pushing new waltzing

people away,

putting up fronts

and barriers,

fences so fierce

and foreboding,

because deep under the earth inside me,

I wanted to trust you,

believe that I deserved

love like yours,

but still quivering

in my storms

that raged in me

and the learned path

of wicked brier,

death and abuse,

the past ripping

my pained flesh

away from my

tender skin,

couldn’t turn off the

mayhem and flashbacks,

harsh manipulations,

fucks that made

me nauseous,

rapes of my innocent self,

cascades of

gritty egos and

religious doctrines

forced on me

under the cruel guise

of love and helping me out,

away from my perceived dirty habits.

I didn’t want to be saved

by the nasty likes of you,

licking the wounds

on me,

that you yourself

had inflicted

and then laughed about.

I purged your toxins

out of my system,

all day,

every day,

with a frozen shudder

in hopes that

I can rise above you,

out of the murky marshes,

into the delicate arms of trees,

looking skyward. 

The Witching Moon's Eye

The witching moon’s eye

opened inside my brain,

shivered in the cold,

dark,

breeze

that flit through my ears,

forging deep into my swollen head,

the eye blinked and shook the dust

off her glossy wings.

Now awake,

I cannot wriggle free

from the visions,

or escape the skulls

lining the sidewalks,

howling for their bodies

that no one seemed

to crave to find.

The golden locks girl

applies her make-up

in the taunting mirror,

paints her face on

to look like all the others

that are lifted up before her

as the examples to be acceptable pretty,

slips neatly into

size zero jeans,

still hating herself for

what she perceives as being fat.

Halter top beauty queens,

finding faults and flaws

in every looking glass

propped up in front of her

and behind,

because this sadistic torture society

wants to teach you

that you always lack,

you are never enough just to be you,

so you will buy more products

to fill the aching void,

as if material could ever quell the lonely.

Silly girl could never be worthy of love and light

until the souls been

sucked out by the consumer system:

plastic dead doll Barbie:

the epitome of the perfected teased tight woman,

strangled in the American dream-

a child’s toy that

will gladly and with great apology

for any inconvenience to the master,

fit itself into the plastic coffined box,

keep its mouth tapped shut,

staple holes where

the eyes of the goddess used to be.

I saw the women around me

chugging diet pills like breath mints,

washing them down with tequila shots,

no lunch or dinner thanks,

laughing at rape jokes

so as not to upset the status quo,

hissing venom at each other,

tearing other women down

to boost their glamour shots

and perceived righteous ratings

for the likes of the porno-minded men

who really just wanted

women who looked like little girls,

for us to beg to be bruised

and broken into tiny pieces

that could be hanged on the mantelpiece

of power lust, greed, and patriarchy.

Fuck the hell hounded media,

the scoffs at any fragment of individuality,

demonizing cures for anxiety and cancer,

heaven forbid a sense of self-worth,

idolizing violence,

rape and pillage tactics,

concrete aggressive erections,

faked orgasms to boost pathetic egos,

submissive whispers of women

so as to not disrupt male dominance.

Instead we must enact our luscious,

loud erotic beings,

tearing down the cannibal structures

of wall street,

screeching lusty odes

to awaken our

fellow artists and empaths,

gentle sisters and brothers alike,

marching hand entwined with hand,

to cast out our sick oppressors.

Our time is now,

to writhe open our throbbing pulses

and rise

ghosts from their walking graves,

vampires from their tainted mausoleums,

witches curving and swaying upward

from their burned ashes,

lovers and prophets

thrusting forward,

shouting,

demanding,

the fall of the

capital consumption empire.

Just breathe and know

that you are electric elegance

wrapped up in an angel,

you don’t need their chemical produce

and liquored fantasy bullshit.

You are loverly and exquisite

just as you are.