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
through the psychotic
television tubes,
breathing heavy
down our backs.

Tricks and trade
drowning out the voice
inside my head that
whispered echoes of
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
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,
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
in her
erotic holy
heard only
if you were paying
half of your attention.

Our horned demons
of contraceptive clinical
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
quick slick tilting of lands
beyond naked nursing sight,
but thundering in
sound and energetic brassy
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
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
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

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
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.
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,
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
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.