tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36040911325453313702024-02-20T09:22:53.700-05:00Prophetic IntrospectionIn a world of trauma, crumbling cultural systems and shifting identities, we must write from our Third-Eye. All entries below are an attempt to do so...
You can also find me here. https://www.facebook.com/propheticintrospectionAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.comBlogger352125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-23368592022217326822018-04-30T18:43:00.002-04:002018-04-30T18:43:35.082-04:00MaybeMaybe I'll just go to the party,
stand around alone in the corner
in a red dress
while everyone talks pink to each other,
politics and weathertown,
anarchists getting stoned
and drinking bourbon straight from the bottle.
Predicable.
And all I'll have to say in response is,
yea, yea, you're so right,
while I'm rolling my brain's eye
in the back of my head.
And maybe I'll just go hang out
with theAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-91230927834029691282018-04-30T18:41:00.000-04:002018-04-30T18:41:19.227-04:00Your Shadows: A Horror StoryFor awhile I tried to
stuff all your shadows into my closet
to shut them up,
but they wouldn't stay,
too loud and pushy to live there
next to my dresses and flannel.
So I had to let them out
to howl in my kitchen,
to mock me in my brain,
leave scratches down my back and arms.
I tried to drown one once,
held one down as long as I could,
watched it struggle under my hands
but it just laughed at meAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-76426270313955002812018-04-30T18:35:00.000-04:002018-04-30T18:35:00.038-04:00To Love an AddictIt is 5:21 in the morning
and all I can wonder
is if you’re still alive
or just another ghost
at my beside, wailing.
See, Ive known you
for 11 years
and I remember
when you used to wear your hair long
and when you cut it all off
because you were tired
of being called faggot
out of truck windows,
and I fell in love with you
the first second you walked into the room.
I was there the night
you tookAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-25397533228024139692018-04-30T18:32:00.001-04:002018-04-30T18:32:12.805-04:00Nicotine Goddess Nicotine Goddess
grows horns on her head
just to show off her sweet skills
and laughs out loud
at your pathetic attempts at
foreplay.
What did you want from me?
A torn sword,
a locket half empty,
a piece of twine
taken from my womb
to tie around your neck.
I left you sleeping
and a note of sexual innuendo
taped to your radiator
to say goodbye.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-34099531934396119612018-04-30T18:30:00.003-04:002018-04-30T18:30:58.245-04:00Cross it out and Start OverIt was like I had accidentally stapled myself shut with a cross and a bird’s wing and I wondered did you ever feel that way? That haunting sense of crosswalks and chicken fingers being pushed down your throat while a vampire sings you that sweet jazz of the nighttime.
I gave up on hallucinations. They read back like lizards fucking, chalk, and cellophane and it was all very exciting and then Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-14126318669449147942018-04-30T18:30:00.000-04:002018-04-30T18:30:05.612-04:00Let's Go BackLet's go back,
before the ice cream
melted in between your fingers,
before the teaspoons
were left dirty
in the kitchen sink,
before the plants
you put in the soil
died in the winter,
before the boxed wine
we drank in one sitting,
before the screaming
and crying in the shower,
before I pulled the Tower
and the damn thing fell
on your head,
before the written rhyme,
before time got bored
and Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-7340868588080317922018-04-30T18:28:00.002-04:002018-04-30T18:28:45.304-04:00Absolutely Twisted You’re a goddamn monster,
she said,
so I ate her lungs
and spat them back out,
sung up to high noon
to destruct the tantric moon
that gave up on this
sunk sick city.
You’re cold,
she said
while I gnawed the gravel you gave me,
bleeding from my tooth’s eye
and I laughed
while I bled dry
to please the crowd
that gathered
chanting of my sin.
You’re sick,
she said.
I threw up my dying liver
from Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-11969543292757054722018-04-30T18:27:00.001-04:002018-04-30T18:27:17.829-04:00Kiss me HardKiss me hard
before you leave
and linger that
absinthe breath
on my tongue.
We are always
sinners to someone's god
and shamans to another,
but in the end
we walk the gravel eaten path alone.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-2542606849386385342018-04-30T18:26:00.002-04:002018-04-30T18:26:12.950-04:00Even Shaved Headed Girls Get the BluesEven shaved headed girls
get the blues,
sitting in classy joints alone,
drinking whiskey and
silently weeping
over dead boys and their fathers.
Looking up from the placemat you are writing on
and recognizing the bartender
who you think you remember
being sloshed at a show at the club Bohemia
grinding up against a barstool,
but you keep catching his eye
and he wonders why you are smiling to Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-75566067733614762562017-10-24T01:36:00.002-04:002017-10-24T01:52:26.859-04:00This is how we take back the Light- Published work on Elephant Journal This is a poem that I just got published in an online journal called Elephant Journal. It's about Revolution and bringing back the light into a dark world of suffering. Check it out.
https://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/10/for-the-dreamers-this-is-how-we-take-back-the-light/https://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/10/for-the-dreamers-this-is-how-we-take-back-the-light/Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-17862645431785594892017-03-06T12:58:00.000-05:002017-03-06T12:58:09.535-05:00Home Fuck
White veiled widow
drags to the beat of
the drum
trailing tears
behind her
that become frogs of
the forest
bouncing back to
their moss laced
logs.
And I used to be
better
at time travel,
but lost the talent
as the years passed
and the dreaming
became a chore,
and the mountains of
sorrow
closed in,
and the snowman
melted
outside my window in
the sun.
What did you say to
me?
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-12166226755277901432017-02-06T00:28:00.000-05:002017-02-06T00:28:29.006-05:00Eat the Sunrise
Old at 30
was exhausting,
nightmares in the daytime,
nightmares in the night.
Burn the whole damn thing down,
I say,
burn it all:
the pigs sloshing muck up on the big White Hill,
the snakes getting high on
hollering at the girls that walk by
on city avenues,
the spiders hissing and spitting up and down Wall Street,
the sheep sitting on their thrones
licking their money.
Let’s Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-17260666084120619952017-01-19T23:15:00.001-05:002017-01-19T23:15:38.175-05:00Published Work on Elephant Journal
A poetry piece I wrote was just published on Elephant Journal. Check it out and help an artist out by sharing it. Thank you!
http://www.elephantjournal.com/2017/01/ode-to-wild-eyed-revolutionary-women-poem/Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-68735641609161630212017-01-18T13:34:00.000-05:002017-01-18T13:34:25.093-05:00In the Winter She Takes Me
He asked me how I felt,
“like pin drops on the skin,” I said,
and he huffed away,
an elephant from another time.
He had left before
I could explain that
I was a very odd little girl
lost in a gritty n twisted little land.
Ever still the awkward octopus
rubbing my body against
the walls at parties,
eyes shifting to my eight shoes,
listening through your words
to the other side of Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-29495760460670969292017-01-16T19:01:00.000-05:002017-01-16T19:01:23.687-05:00The song
There are those days
when you’ve eaten the last of the pop tarts
and washed them down with the last beer and
there’s not a goddamn thing left in your fridge.
Your hungry and pissed
and the overwhelming sense of gloom and
graveyard doom
comes a creepin.
The walls start talking,
hissing insults your way
and are choosing whether or not
to come crashing down.
Your pillows feel like Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-74503591101451137842017-01-14T10:32:00.002-05:002017-01-14T10:32:52.489-05:00Masks
The grey clouds
craved to dance
with me
but all I could do
was mirror the rain
with tears.
Fake laughter came later
in between
my screams
that were not heard
though I didn’t realize
my twisted cries
were just in my head
and that my face only showed
apathy and stern silence
in a world
that still barely saw
the lie on one’s face
much less the
heavens and underworlds
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-8497403091580697012017-01-10T17:03:00.004-05:002017-01-10T17:03:56.779-05:00Back Up Brain
Back up brain,
back up brain,
drive me down those
curvy creepy roads
away from these
haunted humans
spitting and
fitting
their sick stories
into my face
as if it wouldn’t
effect me.
And in the end times,
old souls were
put on trial
for all humanity’s war crimes
because we had seen it all
in our prophetic heads and thus
found compliant,
and the ones who acted their violence Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-32329956459110681672016-12-22T13:30:00.002-05:002016-12-22T13:32:45.587-05:00New Seas and Serpents
She said
keep to the left,
just out of
eye’s reach,
let the energy
be the thermometer,
forget all other weather
for time doesn’t have
a move to make here,
no room for him
on the chessboard now.
He wasn’t wanted.
Instead,
focus on the breath:
big,
and slow,
and deep.
Create the space
and begin.
Your feet
nestle into the mud,
reaching down with your toes,
your roots to Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-39647967431071570732016-12-12T18:19:00.000-05:002016-12-12T18:19:32.134-05:00AND
And I wonder
what the moon wants
as she rises,
and why I start
so many poems with “and”.
I think it’s because
I’m scared of
endings and beginnings,
but the middle
makes me feel safe
like blanket forts and
hiding in closets
which I still do
sometimes when
I miss my dad and my brother,
when the world
seems so dark it might
even swallow the moon
in one big bite.
I like the Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-74065073588969165972016-12-07T13:18:00.001-05:002016-12-07T13:18:31.009-05:00Inappropriate Questions
To be honest,
I thought
some of my questions
were inappropriate for the masses:
why do humans
gotta be so fucking predictable?
You want, you get, you leave.
You want to go shopping cause you
have to be getting and going all the time
to buy and produce
and buy and produce
until you throw up
train tracks and gold.
And why can’t I eat my feelings?
Whats so wrong with that?
Why did Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-32406526669230361772016-12-04T23:12:00.001-05:002016-12-04T23:12:15.592-05:00Language of the Storm
Did the river speak to you, love?
What did he say?
Well all I heard was screaming so
I hitched a ride
on a hurricane
to learn the language
of the storm
but ended up
stranded
in the space between
the lightening and the thunder,
howling like
a fucking prophet on pills,
a saint, naked, without his halo,
a soldier lead to slaughter
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The clowns in the graveyard
went south for the winter
and I watch them
whilst they drift past
my window,
smoking hookah
still in hand.
And as I look beyond
their laughing story makeup
to the glowing clouds overhead,
I see the sun
pretend to circle
the earth with a sigh.
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-33983319329447112782016-11-28T12:25:00.000-05:002016-11-28T12:25:17.905-05:00I Was
I was
brok-en,
take-n,
mak-ing
music out of sorrow
and sick,
twist-ed,
wick-ed,
want-ing
to be seen
as blood drips
out of my mouth
and in all
my magic mayhem.
I was told I was a force,
a storm,
a gathering of
an ancient soul
and a crying child
just
hop-ing
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-32291513622733188572016-11-27T00:44:00.001-05:002016-11-27T00:44:48.882-05:00Money Man
Sick mouth mesmerizes,
pretty doll tantalizes,
silly boys drip down walls
for the prettiest girl in the room,
and in the morning
the monster eats you
for breakfast
without a worry.
Third eye revolts
from your head,
(because you weren’t
paying attention to her anyway)
and she finds the nearest pub
to get trashed in and
makes out with strangers,
leaning on lampposts,
fucks in Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604091132545331370.post-32614363977318527552016-11-21T14:38:00.002-05:002016-11-21T14:38:29.868-05:00I Forget the Rest
Birthing the hunter,
I spent my nights
running,
running,
ever running
from you,
my secret monster.
And I saw
the pain flit
across his
pretty little face
and felt a tinge
of compliance
because I couldn’t
soothe the ache
out of you.
Ah well, at least
she keeps her promise
to be a cold queen,
snow on eyelashes,
still life carousel,
dogs in the dungeon,
manic music
that Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02941548584598418816noreply@blogger.com1