Bipolar in the Mayhem City

I know you didn’t mean
to break my consecrated silence with
your bloody teeth,
but I had spent hours before your arrival
opening my third and fourth eyes
to try to find relief
and yet all I could see were torture visions
from the astral plane,
witnessing mamas holding their dead babes
and the blood of the innocent running ragged
through the streets,
feeling then the tantrum demons rise within my brain
who then held my head under the boiling waves
of the underworld,
and I screaming for deliverance,
or at least one full night of fucking sleep.

And when I finally
snapped out of my mind and back to the earth,
I told you in humiliated whispers
that I had been raped
by the devil
in the back of a red pick-up truck
that sat in your driveway, and
your response was to smirk
through your cigarettes
like my pain was a fucking punch line.
So I nailed my hands to the headboard
and swore to myself
that I would never let anyone
witness my
shape-shifting magic ever again,
thus to dull the phoenix burning within,
I spent hours taking shots of absinthe in the afternoon
and popping pills in bathroom stalls
to dumb myself down to “normal”,
whatever the fuck that means,
then sexing rough boys
who always called the next day and
I never picked up the phone,
instead sat in showers,
sobbing for hours,
rocking back and forth with my guilt
while razor blades and
bottles of asprin
sang me their sweet siren rhapsodies
all the way through the night,
into the morning hours,
rise and repeat.

But that was a few moons ago,
or maybe even years,
I cant quite remember,
and I know now
that I am getting better
at giving myself some grace
through the hard days,
bipolar in the mayhem city
(which I queried might just be
the Freud-fused American
of our modern day shamans),
yet either way these movements
flung me topsy-turvy,
deeply haunting me and growling loud still
within my heart and head.
In spite of it all though,
I am remembering to breath deeper now,
seek peace stronger now,
focus on my own healing and awakening
more fiercely so that I may
pass love on and heal the wounds of
whomever wanders my way.

Talks with Nightmares and Nature

I held your nightmares close
and we became like old friends,
drinking whiskies in rocking chairs
that my grandfather carved
before religion called him out
of the woods and into the concrete, and
we raised our glasses high and wild
whilst you waltzed
through heaven in your underwear
laughing at the people below.
So I took a deep
syncopated breath
to calm down the tide of suicide dreams,
setting the metronome
back to the beginning of time,
soothing flowed through me
as I held my palms skyward
to the moon
and thanked her,
my sacred mistress, who aided me
in remembering,
oh yes,
that part of me is in
the trees outside my house,
in the rain that falls
into the rivers
and flows
to the Ireland waters
from whence my family came.
I am also deep within the 
earthen ground
which heals all wounds
and culture imposed sins and
sighs to the
mourning morn
until laughter
cracks the sky again

like thunder.

The Devil and Cups of Sugar

I woke up
with dragon’s blood
dripping from my mouth,
remnants of the dream spaces that lingered
in which the mystics    
throughout time came together
in the forests forgotten
to argue over the best recipes
for old fashioned cocktails,
and to hold heated debates on which
witches’ brews were best to give soothing to
the dying and the dead
within us all.

And the tempests
that had so softly slept
in the clouds for years stirred and
now awoke coughing
with the ash and poison
of humanity,
winds and rains
growling anger and vengeance,
pouring down on us hungry,
and we then cursed the sky
because, of course,
our egos could always find
someone else to blame.

So as the rain started to whisper on the skin,
I was the Hanged Man
in your closet,
ever swinging and singing songs
that I didn’t remember
whilst still noticing a slight tightening
of my vocal chords,
scratches in the back of my throat
from demon claws
striving to crawl up my stomach lining,
trying to take over my head
which felt detached from my weary shoulders anyway,
and even so I could still hear my mind
floating down the river to the ocean,
which proved to be effective
in catching
the third eyes
of fallen angels
strip teasing in the streams outside my house,
crashing circus acts and white weddings,
watching humans and
their Hollywood heroes who beat their wives
and received generous tax breaks,
then to be running late to sidewalk rallies
protesting wall street religions,
sighing at stop signs
and popping pills like popcorn
on the way to after parties
and leaving heavy footprints
in the muddy snow on the streets of Detroit,
lighting cigarettes for strangers
and drinking wine with the neighbors
of serial killers
who hid their bodies
under the top soil of the lawns of strangers
instead of dropping by for cups of sugar.

I had given up on cancer cures
and your gods of mercy
since I had watched my brother
slowly slip into the afterlife,
my howls of pain and loss
ricocheting through the undergrowth,
splitting my soul in two
so that part of me could follow him
into the ethers and
the rest of my ghost wanders the world

trying to recall the pace of your heartbeat.