Empire Crumble- Rise and Revolt

Taking tea

and precarious refreshments

in the man-made

soiled and sweating

sinkhole,

I squirm and

wriggled out

of the maliced mosh pits and

festering angry faces,

temper tantrums not being cute or helpful

with our own bloodied heads

being used as cement to build more

illness factories and stock market make-up schemes,

teetering towers for the grizzly heads of state.

Cemetery stones whispering

in humming harsh tones

about the rise of melancholy,

choked down,

gasping and gurgling slosh

with tasty teaspoons of

aspartame apathy.

Hierarchy demons propagating

counterfeited fornicating plastic masks,

fed forced and planted upon any

anarchy dandelion

who so much as dared to look

forward,

upward,

move in a direction

of equality and enlightenment.

We were cast out,

imprisoned,

scape goated,

cleverly whistle blown to

the depths of inferno layers

of the powerful fucked,

faked,

fantasy.

ha-

Im.

Not.

Buying.

Plastic credit

giving us selfish egoed fame,

dizzying delusional highs of

commercial catastrophe

and seeping drama addiction.

I spent my morning sick

to my bleeding stomach,

purging propaganda

and patronizing patriarchy,

giving then instead my

fierce and frightening

energies to revolt

in seas of pleasured nuances,

pure moaning breathing soft

on the neck ecstasy

with the simple act of awakening,

choosing to fight

psycho-pathetic doctrine,

a staggering wake up to

police state falsified forensics,

brutal tactics of paranoia

and serial brutality.

Gnashing our battered teeth

together in blazing brilliant protest

against sick greed and powerlust supremacy.

The time is ticking close

to the programed wires of the greenback filth machine,

thus the craving necessity to stand up,

no more bowed heads

in chemical injected reverence to the

sick hydra headed kings

with their sadistic twisted grins,

humiliation inflicted on the disenfranchised,

thus to aid the jacking off of suited men

in pristine golden armored bathrooms,

pentagrams and pentagons.

We shout loud and vicious,

screaming down walls thicker

than even Jericho could muster,

throwing down the privileged powerful

where they sleep and smirk at our

pain and agony.

Together we unshackle

our young and each other,

shaking the sleazy elite

from their frothing habits of

murder and cover-up covergirls,

rapes and muttering adrenaline fueled mass graves.

We turn our smiling roughed edged faces,

without fucking permission-

towards the sun,

into a new dawning age

of collective spirit and

freedom for all people.

Awake, we now must Rise.

Traveling Circus

Lilith's vengeance
on my breath,
I storm through
your body,
awake chakras,
open up
the dark and light places,
now to enter the unknown.

Under the ground
of the circus
is where we begin.
The caterpillar responds
in smoke:
Who are you?

Cloudbursts frame the sky,
we are dying
and you are shaking
your fists,
yet still our bodies
crumble like the
sacred mockingbird and bee
in their cages,
collecting dust and anger.

You smother me,
I regain consciousness
and you stare,
waiting for a fucking
thank you,
Judas lies again.

I woke up,
felt a doll pulled by puppet strings,
and knew something
was wrong,
stirring in my stomach.
My head is spinning
from the visions
that haunt me
through the swamp,
and that desperate fog,
ice on my brain.
We continue,
up the mountain,
our paths
creating beauty
in a hazy world.

Dancing with the devil on a g string: Channeling

It was a difficult tempest, forging through the marketplace on a Saturday afternoon. I witnessed the media perceptions of wealth and harems enough as I melted chocolate with a hot spoon (setting fire to metal with my burning hands), stirring and watching the medical history of cancer erupt on the front page of the press, newsstands and reverends pleading with the nations for opposite virtues- more or less a balance in the tide of fashion and flavor for a higher power.

Immortally inclined, he counts his change and wonders if he can splurge on a cup of coffee. Times are hard even for the nectar queens with their high top sneakers, restaurant gods and witnesses of first-degree murder- all hyperbole and stark raving electrolytes have a wish to yell out their grievances towards a harbor state that couldn’t see the sun save for looking down at the pavement to check and make sure his shadow is still there.

Luckily I kept extra creep shadows in a skull and crossbones bag that I bought for seven dollars at I shop I know down in the crop circle district, next to the pyramid building of the Illumanati that stands in the dirt from which I grew. The mythos of the underworld was cathartic: all dimensions seemed faint, and the nerves underneath this soft skin are undressed to show the perceptions that I dance from one drizzle day to another.

 Swept over the bridge of a fortnight ago, I carry the stream down with me to our resting place- a dam set to the tune of the Moulin Rouge with all her outfits set out on the bed in her dressing room, lipstick and stockings already adorned she dances in front of the mirror while no one watches but her window and the fan that easily ruffles her undergarments.

Seizures and architecture angels gather in the wings on the theatre, each rehearsing in their final minutes before performance: those vicious steps that aggravate the senses of all in the audience, caution tape to be set down later- we receive note from the piano player that beginnings are around us and through us, five minutes till curtain up. The show being ready for us to take it off its training wheels, out of her braces and backpacks of Lisa Frank, and this middle school fever and fraternity that was found so many times in the empty aisles of this mechanical theatre during tech week. 

She grows quickly and now the entrances and exits of this veiled subtle playing ground open up to us as if paranoia was expected, prophecy was indignant and said whatever the hell it needed to, dance was deviant, and this was a blood-soaked exorcism to be sure. Two minutes till curtain, six cups of coffee, at least a pack of cigarettes before the performance is done and the sentiments of the puppets’ strings are draining through the spaces in the heads of this clapping recession.

Dance was a rising of the serpent spirit, a channel of literal embodiment of music and persona in front of an audience. I take the time to form an existential philosophy around these movements of vengeful anarchy. Shake the tyranny out of your bone marrow, once and for all (until tomorrow). I sat in my white wooden chair that my mom and I painted when I was a kid, and I wait for these masters of disillusion, these fortresses of purgatory to share their rhymes with me and together, music and feet stomping out the silence.

I swoop and shift, bird fingers and feathers melting away off my shoulders. I will change for you and in front of you, every artist giving and taming their respective closets. Shall I strive to meld these steps of efficacy and tolerance? I like to listen to all kinds of music as I choreograph. Pacing to the beats that change with the tick of the clock, die on the dance floor and lift up from the water that surprises us, drowns us, and wakes us up once again in the morning.

I was instructed by my body, shaking tumult and a sexual pleasure that can be heard for miles. Requiems and inscriptions on the body, I formed movements blind and to myself make the music and the cause behind clear, efforts and catastrophes bind us to the physical world where even the most dedicated of angels dare not trespass into this abyss madness and scrutiny. 

Legs wrapped around chairs and bible thumping hands take me to new avenues of expression and my thoughts on the economy, the music industry, and the persistent drumming that throbs my body’s arousal to speak through the storm, to dance through the tumult, to look you in the eye and swear that I will entertain you.

I sit and see flashes, visions of our music artists and their yearnings. I carry out their theatricals and voice chords channeled through my shoulders and arms, spreading through my torso and down through my thighs to my bare feet. Ecstasy in furrowed moments, space slows down and gets a ticket to see this audience applaud a haunted divergence from the mundane psychoses that wait to take us back home after our evening dancing with the devil on a g string.
- Megan

Mad hatter moshes... channeling of fallen angels

Ch. 30 The warfare starts in the jungle. The Mad Hatter Moshing This Out

            Hazardous roads ahead, my friends. We may be fiery but we will hurt everyone if we go on like this. I can handle my own but all this other dissonance and melancholy has no place here in between weeping and an itch. My god, we are maniacs to let flawless fancy get in between blood that seems to be just about the thickness of a tear that drops down my head every night, scoffing at the jabberwocky. When the smoke clears, and you are not around, I myself will not say that I am that surprised. Heads will roll for this one.

            Hear me out, marriage and Figaro- I gave up on innocence a long time ago, we all do the hunting and shoveling alone sometimes. Ignition raised in me like a fortune teller on her cigarette break, she sees the forest running from the machine lioness, furrow down inside the marsh lands and I will give you a story to tell later. Mosh it out on the table of the mad hatter, I don’t know- I could give us better scary visions and entertainment than this circle ring of foul shadows. I resurrect the traditional rules followed by the hierophant and his means to which enlightenment was not far away.

            Alice can slay the jabberwocky as he has done before. He will come back to wonderland as he is always meant to, the mad hatter thinks so and that this time will be no different. There are more players than were expected. We all were there, watching this torrent affair, this twisted energy formed tides of violence and anarchy. 

I shall rush to thump in the rain, make the noise for the fallen angels and the death of the innocent. I will reek mind riots and raves of any kind, vampires awake to the sound of my voice in the dark and we shall all dance together, ride this Theos apocalypse rain wave together. One and all must be invited and singled out for bravery or dimension of any kind, so many enemies and haunted dreams to fight.

            I was sloppy and lousy with ideas, costumes and profanities made and assigned, personalities switched and catered, swapped and performed in days when nothing was certain and everyone came with passions to speak and yell out. Cursing the night sky and running wild may help some and may not help others, that is up to you. 

Hot heat thunders down on an unexpecting audience, soothsayers and the nightingale call out for the reckoning that is to come, wrath and thieves are to hitchhike to their separate castles and vanities must be forgotten. It is time to get messy and speak out the truth in lords of reign and rains after. 

I can create the de-program, the think tank switch is turned on and the eyes open, even in your sleep. Experience the otherness out in the decibel clapping of hands. Take a sip and pass it on in the presence of our new traitors, the disguise good but still noticeable in dark lighting.

            I ask you to sweat out the summer with me, measuring my lengths and further-ness from the meltdown and my close proximity to the universe suffering: depths of incense and breath of the archetype-angels, I dive in as always into the whirlwind and catch my breath, soothe a touching monster, bite a favor and a lover. 

Straighten my wings, if you are able, I have beaten the recipes of salvation avalanche during midterms, in between meals, and late nights of astral travel. I channel my meaning, kind sir, and the blood spilt is only mine. I don’t know where all this comes from, meat hook or not, I spill with effects and afters. 

My challenge is to write it out regardless of needs and wants of others: have and have nots, forget-me-not flowers my mom plants in the summer. I tempted my last feature film a long time ago; I can’t hear you now. Your voice grows softer and faints in my ear.

            I was awakened early, I feel, and this time I am angry at all the confusion and denial. I appeal to the highest serial number, please leave me be for a moment’s notice and I will explain to you the lack I feel, the muses are heavy in closer circles.

 I give up the length of my death again to stay and fornicate you free. Perform even, to the best of my degree and the few experiences I share with you my art, my others and Adam’s ribs, Princes of far off isles in the north, Persian rugs left behind and forgotten in the attic. I keep your mirrors sacred in my body, unique persons brightly shine- as you do.

- Megan

Enough of this madness. I will bring us out of the rabbit hole.

I felt ruled by an energy,

that I could not really explain,

in words.

I will struggle again,

strive to explain,

that when you bleed-

so do I.

Enough of this madness,

we come out of the rabbit hole,

shaking.

No, my therapist did not

tell me to write this note.

I write due to a calling I feel,

a vocation for now.

Another pressing need,

I have to write it down,

try to express,

tell you-

anywhere out there,

that things we be alright.

Can you hear?

Are you listening?

I will chill us out,

calm us down,

take some of this pain and strain away,

I will not leave.

There are ghosts everywhere,

all wanting attention,

in every room I walk into,

it seems.

Can be tiring sometimes.

It seems this kind of thing

runs in my family.

I have needs shouted and whispered,

people need a lot sometimes.

I give until I crash,

it will work itself out.

No worries,

ladies and fancy fellas.

Love is a deep and tricky thing.

Ah well, the game of chess continues

in our absence, ever ticking.