The Mystic Moans

Chains, strains, and
drizzling drains
followed me home
after the earthquake
that hit hard on the 17th 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
in pinstripe suits
with spats and
winged tipped laughs,
to hide the fear
of the wrathful undertaker
with whom we played
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,
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,
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,
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.