Art, Sex, and Stupor

And in the midst of fake smiles and orgasms,
humans connected
on occasion,
regardless of the weather
and whether
we were paranormal,
ghosts stuck in chests,
breathing and coughing,
and smoking cigarettes
even though we hated the taste.

We impulse
art, sex, and stupor,
speaking in their respective languages,
giving over to
violent feasts or
vibrant fevers,
all consuming
in one way or another,
and I heard it all,
in my head,
the predictable needs,
the wants,
the words
forming in my brain
before spilling
out of your mouth
but I had been taught
it’s rude to interrupt
so I kept it all
under my red feathered hat
and reminded myself
to smile.

I grew weary
of being the back-up plan
or the girl that cancels
three minutes before
I was supposed to be there,
and I found myself
staring out the window
all the time again
trying to listen and soothe
the ugly self talk
and exorcising the harsh words
spat at me as
you held my face
to the ground,
dirt in my mouth-

though to be clear,
my spirit wasn’t in my body then,
it had already
gotten the fuck of there,
sitting in some dive
on the west side of London
drinking old fashions,
a nod to my brother
who had died
in the war with the spider,
and as the sun came up,
I wept into tea leaves
that foretold
the end of the capitalist pig
and the coming
of a new age of old magic.                                                    


Shadow Monster

Dearly Beloved,
we are gathered here
in the sight of the sun
to supposedly face our demons-
but I found
the best fights against
my hauntings were
in the moonlight,
on empty hollow street corners
with cigarette butts
still smoking
between the creases
of the cobblestones
and in the back alleys
of dirty pubs
where the trash cans
line the entrance to hell
and her hounds.
Teeth and blood,
bones that crack and show,
fists thrown wildly
into the night,
attacking my own
shadow monster
who did not give a damn
how much blood stains the concrete
and in the end,
as the morning meets my face,
it seems all I can do
is run

until the twilight falls again.

To Begin with the Supernatural

I had inclinations towards
the snarky and paranormal:
dragons dancing in the daylight
on the courtyards of Oxford,
monsters texting and swearing
riding the subways in Manhattan,
ghosts sitting in my bathtub
smoking cigars,
all of it there for an
open eye to see.

The mechanic medicine man
sent alchemy potions
through the mail
to those interested
for a low price of
only three installments
of 19.99
with the only side effect
being that when ingested
by humans they
began immediately
eating the furniture.

And I know,
I know,
my imagery is bizarre
and my words
were sticky sometimes,
my syllables shaking and quaking
in their high heeled boots
with laces up the back
but these words
are my real-
and that seems like

a good place to begin.

Breaths and String Theories

The Sphinx got weary
of always being the
mysterious deep one,
so she slumped off
to the nearest pub
and drank herself silly
in the middle of the afternoon
which she knew
her mother wouldn’t approve of
but ah well,
she adheres to no one
and liked it that way.

I drank orange juice
and thought
back to death,
standing in my kitchen
on a Wednesday morning,
raiding my fridge and laughing
as she watched two red birds
squabble over the bird bath.
She saw through
my pathetic attempts
at small talk
but still would not
tell me why she was there,
just kept showing up in my kitchen
eating everything.

And don’t you hate it
when the batteries go out
of a thing
just as you need it,
though it seems to me
every moment
is chaos and light
and every facebook status
was some sort of wild call
of this new morphing man.

sometimes I stare
out the window
and all of a sudden,
with a rush of wind
in my face,
I believe again
that we connect
to each other,
string theory vibrations
bumping into other
string theory vibrations,
resonating together,

making music.