Witch Wings

Im re-growing my

witch wings

because even hell and her angels

deserved a break

every once in awhile

to block out the hate

and the voices

in my thin skull

that told me I wasn’t worthy,

sweeping those

dust demons out

along with the ashes

of the fires that burned in Salem

with my broken bruised broom,

soon to be mended

by my own fucking magic

thank you very much

so I could take flight

anytime I was

found wanting

to get the fuck out of here,

as far away as I could

from under this sleazy mess.

But all I could hear on repeat

were my brother’s

last ghosts breaths

before he died,

skipping sick phonograph,

over and over

in my freak show head,

for the last two horror years

which drove me

off cliffs and

wild mad.

And when I looked

in the nightmare mirrors

of bathrooms

across America,

I didn’t recognize myself,

my eyes

consumed by house fires

and shitty poetry lines

scrawled on

napkins in diners

in Minnesota,

sloppy words on coasters in coffee shops

in Tennessee,

slurring notes in ice cream parlors

in Arizona

under the bluest skies

Id ever seen,

scribbling nasty nonsense

on paper towels

in the bars

of New Orleans,

hoping to turn

prophesies into realities.

And I sang

choruses of dirges,

and harmonized

with funerals in

the catwalks of churches

with candles below glowing fiercely

in every last one of the stained windows.

I was exhausted

with pulling off masks,

layer

after

aching

layer

to then eat those same damn toxins again,

I never seemed to fucking learn

and digest in disgust

the poison that  

sticks to the

sides of my

stormy stomach lining,

causing that kind of

hunched over thunder

in the belly

with a grimace and groan,

and I was left with just lungs and

phantom blood

which scream out

just to prove

their very existence,

but no one,

not even me,

can hear their cries
in the night.

Missing

All I wanted

was to know your

soft footsteps were

climbing up the stairs

to my room again

in the morning

so we could chat.

Simple things

I suppose it seems,

but we were truly connected

to the point that

though I couldn’t hear you coming

I could always feel your energy

moving closer to me,

across carpet to wood floors

to carpet again,

and you always smiled

with awareness

when I turned around

in my chair

to meet your face

as you walked through

the doorway.

Ive never met

a pair of siblings

closer than you and I,
always finishing

each others sentences,

had our own language

which was mostly

knowing sighs

and intuitive glances

sprinkled with obscure

movie quotes

and lots of laughter.

I miss the excitement

you showed me

when I walked into a room,

arms outstretched for giant hugs,

made me always feel

so special and significant,

like I could make your day

just by being my crazy hot mess of a self,

no judgment or harshness

spat in my direction,

just all accepting and

unconditional loving,

and I felt the same way,

you changing my life

for the better,

with every moment spent

together,

and even the rare moments apart

you were my conscious,

gentle and kind,

then coming back together

smoking cigarettes,

over tipping in restaurants

and booze joints,

toasting our dad

who we lost

many years before

with bourbon and tears

on back porches

across america,

swapping memories that triggered

other memories,

now forever lost

under the setting sun

a year after you died

and your ashes still

in my mother’s closet

because we couldn’t bare

the thought of letting them go.

We shared all the nuances

of existence with each other,

snarky jokes and plans for the future,

big travel plans and roaming lands,

news articles

on raging wars,

conspiracy theories,

contradicting philosophies,

deciphering propaganda,

music,

language, and

how to ignore

the weight of the

capitalist mayhem

in the midst

of the struggle

of being artists

in a society

that only glorifies

the buying and spending

of goods no one needs.

And now

I only dreamt of snakes

and friends

becoming strangers

in the years

after you,

my dear brother,

died of the brain cancer

that no one

would talk about.

And though

I sat around fires

with groups of happy people,

all the ladies

averted my gaze

and went off into

the night laughing

and kissing each other

whilst I just tried

to put one breath

in front of another

and waited by the embers

until the sun came up

so I could

go away from here

with a shudder to the left

and a flask of whiskey

to the right,

because I refused

to force smiles

and fake happy

in the days

after my fallen brethren,

when death’s cold hands

rested on my shoulders

and gave me headaches

so bad

I couldn’t see the floor

beneath me,

but even though you didn’t believe,

I still swore I heard

angels singing

through the veil

of the dead.

Party Animal

Was I just too fucked up

for this to work?

Had I ruined the night

before even getting dressed?

Yes,

still in bed

20 minutes to show time,

party go time,

and Im hunched over

a six pound bag

of peanut m&ms,

chugging a liter of

cold coffee

that was brewed

three days ago

when Id had the energy

to go downstairs

and the patience

to wait for the

drip drip drip

of that dark elixir.

Now, Im holding my

fucking pen

like a goddamn

hand grenade,

listening to the same song

over and over

til it makes me nauseous

and snapping at my mother

who just wants

to help me pick out a lipstick

and pleads with me

for the hundredth time

to leave my room

and go meet some people

which makes me feel guilty,

even though she doesn’t mean to

put those feelings on me,

I did somewhere in my hazy head

want to at least play normal

sometimes.

Six tranquilizers

and one panic attack later,

breathing so short Im feeling light headed

and have to pull over

into a gas station

with its boxcar lights

droning down on top of me.

I do my best to calm down alone

in my knee high black boots and

some little saucy skirt,

with one of my infamous

big tits shirts,

all of which makes

me look fabulous

but forgettable,

which Im all too aware of,

always knowing

Ive shown up to the wrong party,

feeling like some kind of

freak apparition or

an awkward octopus who shakes

and shuffles out of sight,

my eight tentacles outstretched,

attaching themselves

to the darkest corner

of the dance floor,

slurping down vodka cocktails

cause that’s what everyone else

seems to enjoy

though I know I always

throw it all up when I get home,

wishing to be underwater instead

and finding deep caves

to hide in.

I felt out of my mind,

fancied myself a vampire,

an erotic empire,

a soul entertainer,

some bastard’s badass bitch,

a fortune teller’s mistake,

a maiden of the moon,

but at the end of the night

felt absolutely nothing

and sang slurred lullabies

to my sweet midnight cat

who looked at me

with a sadness and knowing

akin to mother earth who

seemed to sleep alone too,

tossing and turning

with the tides

and eyes wide

staring into the void,

calling out for someone

to remember her name

in the morning

even when the house of cards fell

and left us

only dust and an apron

that was too tight

but must be warn

to clean the sexually frustrated furniture

and to keep

the hat racks

standing in attention

to the prophecy on

the last-standing wall

that echoed

our own madness

and the capitalist decay:

this was the only thought

that put a smile on my face

the whole evening

as I sat at the bar

and drank til I was sober again

in the already

drowning damned dawn.