Ophelia Thrill

I got a delicious thrill

in the mere act of

watching you

watch other people.

You seemed interested,

just as I,

in these strange

and exotic beings,

bumping up against

other flailing spirits,

little blushes and

brushes with

pleasure and mortality.

It was really the

body rhetoric that

drew me in,

feeling subtle energy cues,

creeping from my pulsing third eye

steadily down to my blistered feet

like an adrenaline rush

of pleasure in the nighttime.

I heard the whispers

of words that you never

dared to say,

pound in my ears

like three lines of a song

that sticks in my head,

on repeat.

And you didn’t have to explain

with tongues lashing out of holy mouths,

because I was always

well versed in the language

of tasty bones and blood,

pumping and betraying

your so-called secrets to me.

And though you feigned

apathy and callous cognition,

you and I both knew better,

just another scared and sacred boy,

craving to be heard

through the machine white noise

and speaker feedback.

I felt stuck though,

falling for other fallen angels

that I wanted to

embrace so softly,

long enough

to soothe and sex the pain out

of their broken astral bodies,

found instead

that they sucked me dry

of my healing powers,

black hole taming,

your addictions and afflictions

held on to my already clipped wings,

taking me straight down

to the rivers of hell

and high water,

drowning me slow,

submerging me

till most of the breath was

strangled out,

then to hoist me out of the water,

just for a splice of a moment,

to give me your

“you should be so lucky” glint,

and to show your pretty painted-on face,

smirking at my tortured lungs,

hear your soft sultry lies

that I let you get away with,

then plunging me down again

into the icy waters

that did not forgive

or forget without blood sacrifices

to the gods of sadism.

I woke screaming

from that dream

that repeated on

my writhing veins.

Oh honey,

you cant spend your hours

saving those

dark mystery creatures,

they crave the cycle

of the death drive,

licking up the spilled blood

of the innocent,

dangerous in their actions

and quick to pour

cruel words on

my already bled and raw flesh

that only moistened to

the thought of light

and a world where

heaven was enacted on earth

instead of that glorification of violence.

I deserved better

than this abuse,

and deep down,

you felt it too.

Please,

just let me go,

oh hungry monster,

to drift down

the gentle currents,

Ophelia left to

her own devices.

Magic Bones

Tigers working the printing press,
we stumble on,
sharpening teeth in our soaking mouths
with fever and fervor,
to make slyly simple actions into grand metaphors of
desire that deepen and delivered doorstep prophecy,
leaves crackle underfoot,
apothecary apprentice
turns pages for the master and smiles at the time clock
clicking backwards to the center of the womb,
friends partaking each other in dark secrets
held inside lungs for 18 cold years,
until a staring sad eye swept over her,
in just the right direction
with a calming sensation behind the throat,
and so she foretold her untold woes
to a quiet humming wanted phantom
who sobbed and held her hand until dawn came upon them,
so slowly and subtle,
delicate touch under a harsh sun.

I unwound you from your lies
and shaking wounded rage,
if you could perchance dare to shut your fake and fucked mouth,
I could explain astral projection radiance,
channels so intense that I felt my soul riot
and ricochet out of my body,
into brains and tempest creatures,
witness the revelation of the empath,
what twas meant when I said I could stand in a room
full of gasping water ghosts
and see looming interactions
coming up in the spaces between continuum and architectured consciousness,
quaking relationships heaving frustrated breath at each other,
vaguely hidden erotic meanings in casual lounges,
spiked delusions,
preemptive strikes and premature ejaculations,
sexed pill distractions,
porn and milk,
effort relaxed into science sleazy therapy and
doctor visits cleverly disguised as getting better,
with little effort on your part,
of course,
with such great greed money to be made,
oh blessed be the corrupt pigged america,
his torture mind tricks,
tacks nailed straight on through our fingerprints,
tinkering out twisted melodies,
blood dabbled marks on white and black keys,
grand pianos shoved in almost always forgotten corner closets
or dusty dank basements of the obscene elite.

Then after the ghosts with their horrorshow heads,
nailed and bloody battered serenades,
I felt a sexy sizzle spark up through my insides,
made me sigh heavy,
got aroused,
dripping
wet
so wanting
that twouldve slipped supple down your soft skin,
blush slightly,
though always hide my kink ravenous
pulsing pleasure fucking well
like a snarky alchemist hatstand
holding back a throbbing head erection.

Twilight coming down deep around me,
caressing gently away the pain and manipulative pressure,
fissure flashbacks of cruel men before.
Night had a way with wonderful whimsical words,
safe havens for once in what seemed like centuries
of marionettes tied together with barb wire, scare tactics, and tears.
Oh hungry mouths,
spine magic wrapping around my haunted psyche,
raptured out the lonely that strangled me in dreaming,
hanged me to swing back and forth,
sick in my waking,
a perceived innocent peering out of syrup yummy rainy windows,
longing so desperately to somehow
escape all this misery and malice,
etched under my poor poisoned brain,
screaming headaches down my limbs to limbo
and back again.

Mm though the sunset times cuddled me just so kindly and aware,
with warm palms stroking away the sadness,
lips tender,
teasing and caring enough to taste me fully,
healing me awake,
lulling away from the nightmare that was mine
to hold in shadow,
never to whisper or shout out loud the visions
that sewed my mouth shut
and taught me to trust no touch or kindness from anyone. 
To be cradled, comforted without conditions
and payment plans, games and rude expectations,
what a lovely thought.

I still hope,
while painting rooms with fanciful footwork,
swaying naked sultry curves pressed heavy against yours,
or scribbling my sagas,
sacred rites and witchcraft,
visions enthralled in thunder and seraphim,
that I will be loved as wildly as I have loved,
expressing affection and unconditional moans of sex and passion unyielding,
there must be others out there in the ethers as I,
souls for which love and light are the rhythm
they melt and vibrate to,
could take me inside and on top,
into the depths of their being
without cages and chains and violence.

Holy awakening world,
where are you?
Hold and rush to me quickly,
before I sink back into the earth
to avoid the constant breaking
of my bones and
battered heart strings,
for all the dead and dying,
I cannot bare the sight.

Hard Re-Birth (adultish)

Could I please

rain down on you,

for to shake the

madness out,

to treat someone lovely,

might help soothe

this tortured soul,

I gasp to have

one more day

to heal the bleeding earth.

Let me

lay down on ya,

lips to skin,

my mouth follows

your energy

down,

and up,

inside and out,

through the spine,

rise with me.

Moan out your pain,

which turns into desire,

soaking us both,

onto the astral plane,

and we could send

each other into that wide space
between

death and ecstasy.

I will re-birth you,

then to live again,

with cum

and breathing on my neck,

deep throat whispers,

oh fuck yes,

one more time,

with feeling.

Somebody, Move.

Slave girl trade
kept me up last night,
the world is weeping,
and I listen best at nighttime,
when the shadows wander, and
the mirror haunts
with staggering,
breathless,
appeal.
I can't stop looking deep,
yearning for even deeper down the rabbit hole,
hard and wet and deep,
but what if I don't want to stop?

The Salem witches are awake
and on the move,
still sizzling from
their wounds,
they start to come alive,
burn again in the moonlight,
as you start to moan again in your sleep,
beautiful sounds of unconscious pleasure
awake within you.

Though we start
to notice the mass hysteria,
the twisted tea parties
that are starting to piss off the Mad Hatter,
the smell of pure upheaval
and revolt was
starting to course through again,
these tired old veins,
still always hear the calling.

Make no mistake,
this is a new level of inferno,
I'm watching the
fallen angels in my head
turn into machine drunk zombie dolls,
sadness turns to
self-loathing and despair,
stop this dark force at work
in the dungeons of our deficit,
and the puppet masters for
the Principal are laughing ever still.

Addicted to sex
and the rush of pleasure,
I hunger for spirits
not afraid to fuck deep waters,
expand our horizons,
we can travel and change,
become misfit gypsies
in quite the traveling
Freakshow,
masturbatory habits disclosed
and prescription pills
letting the mind wander
and weave,
out into oncoming traffic.

I will let you overcome me
just because it felt good
to be wanted a little,
I guess.
Vampires twisting in nightmares,
cancer hot flashes in the corners
of bathroom stalls,
heavy sighs and so on,
the sickle comes down
again on our prophets of the twilight hours.
We stand by and watch
the rite
played out over our bodies,
and say nothing.
enough noise.
Somebody, move.

The Witch Doctor Visions

I was born into the hands
of a laughing demon
in the back room of an apothecary
in New Orleans
circa 1617.

Let it be known that
when the witch doctor stared
into my red eyes,
the moment of my first cries,
he sucked air into his mouth fast,
held his breath for 45 seconds
and then let it out with a deep sigh
that rattled the very walls
of that establishment
and then he groaned in disillusion.

I knew what he was thinking
and thus I responded
with a haunted growl,
the flock of ravens
sitting on the tombstones
across the street
took flight in whispers
and soft hisses.

Meanwhile,
in a small village in
modern day Pakistan,
a rebel for the white knight
mounts his horse,
shouts into the sky
an old religious curse
on the land
and leads his soldiers
to the center of the town-
he was told to leave no survivors
and he is a man who follows directions.
I could hear the screams
from where I lay,
mass graves leave an energy imprint
on our DNA,
Templar fever is spreading.

Approximately one hour after the slaughter,
a 23 year old man awakes
from his nightmare sweating
and turns to his Russian wife:
"wake up,
that fucking bastard
killed even the children
in that little town
with the tip of his
thrusting sword,
into their chests,
drinking their blood.

Soar with me to the 21st century,
watch the goth teens
down that one alley in Brooklyn,
shooting up heroin again,
standing in the shadows,
waiting for hot legs to walk by and bother-
just because,
"hell, there's nothing else
to do in this fucking lame town."

Sitting in my shower,
taking crawlspace intuition
deeper into wonderland,
I fall into the rabbit hole
and wait for the secrets
to unfold in the basement
where my astral body lands:
Joan bennet Ramsey and her father,
painted faces,
sad eyebrows and dark horses
swarm around me.
I cough and the man
standing in the corner
by the window steps into view,
he laughs and disgusts me.

I jolt awake and vomit out the sinister maniac
with the wild beast hair
hanging in his face.
I watched him murder that poor child
with a plastic bag and a hair tie,
and after a night like this one,
I will never be the same.
All the visions I have,
I carry with me into the daytime,
but I won't tell you every image-
most I take with me to the sea
with the moon
shining and smiling on the water.

Heartbeat Earth

Living inside the heartbeat of the earth, I hunt for the requiem spaces of silence that hide me from those snarling dogs ever howling at the sultry sirens of the nighttime. Falling fellows, we land altogether abruptly in the sinkholes of the economy. We are stripped of our hypnotic collectables, our sacred encounters with the third eye of the sun.

Give the moon her last breath as she turns down the horizon and sleeps through the day, a curled smile flit across her face. Death slumps around on all fours and seems to drink black coffee and smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, his rusty voice fumbles over the lines of prophecy written with burning coals in the sand.

An artist in the shackles of the machine, I wonder if the apathy can change me into a walking number. Speak loud and strong before the house of card crumbles down on you too, the face of a myth staring back at you and laughing.

Yet thrust on we must, hold the lamplights higher and raise a glass to those we’ve lost through the war of articulation. Ignite the furnace within me once more. Lift up the voices of the collective electric body and soon our wet lips can drink in the creative again.

The Witch Doctor

            Mounted coffin, we perfect our deaths and cynicisms whilst losing seconds that tick by- head to the cog, instead of our insides held out in the open. I wondered why the ceremony? We wild out the flame too quickly and end up lingering to smell only the smoke that’s left to remind us of our senses. Own your collector, says the imaginational witch doctor as you pay your debts to the mariner. What serpents are these that we are passing around, hand over hand, the candle lit circles that rest inside the capital? Their bite is more sadistic than usual, I think to myself as I can only see my shadow in the reflection as of late.

            Were we not meant to be mad as hatters, picking up sticks and sights of the lumination lucifers? We cater inside, to you- the great unknown audience. Sex performs her dance in front of you while I sit behind you and kiss your neck. Indeed we dip into the delusion as to come up more silent and prophetic than when we began. This is not just a joker’s ride, my friends, we are changed for it and there must be for a purpose- all this pain.

            With sensation and strangers on either side of the pendulum, I swing- forgotten blackbird on a fishhook. I suppose someone chose vampire elite energies to show me in dreams, with heightened sense, the way through this darkness of an underworld, caring only to make it through each night, each doll’s fragmented smile, each channeled mystic eye through which I saw your renegade disparity.

            Red lips bruise the night and left her hungry for another day to change the longitudes and latitudes of our current “take no prisoners” routine. Deep in deluge, we with stretched out arms try to come back to the surface of the water for another heavy breath. I fear the coming of the reaper whose got one ear to the sky and the coming of winged myths and the other ear to the ground- I hear the rumbling of a new army of crusaders as they march in my sleep. What we need is a crop circle knight, says the crowd, a rugged crossed hangman who will indeed go to death for the people century after century. The collective conscious realms of my brain twitch at each other as if to say: where is the grace and variety of death and disobedience to the same checkmate as the game before?

            Main themed resistance was inevitably corporate co-option. We need a new stream of collective consciousness. Been there and here and nowhere and earthen landscapes are beautiful in the fall time but in separate spaces I entreat more and more so I can maybe figure this out. A stream of insincerity and dark powered alchemy still pulses through me with that dark boy shake and shutter, a dialect of isolation and further from sane than my ancestors would want I would guess. A father and hierophant figure in the ground, a boy version of myself brother with brain cancer creeping through his cells- spread out like a spider.

            Asylumed in my swirling astral body, I pray for sanctuary and found there was no such thing. Tantrums in my sleepless heart: fire fights dancing headless in my foresight. So, trembling in the mosh pit, I will rise to this occasion to toast a glass, crown a new destiny, forge through the bogs and the undergrounds of New Orleans and the madder the hatter, the better. 

Creep the Freak

Forget the synthesized method of communication that you were trained as a baby for, with the doctor on speed dial you may still run astray from the messenger that came to reapply the product of breathing. The jester bows to the Magus and I swore she spat gore and for-knowledge of the underneath water groans,

 the tower falls into the arms of its lover and never remembers to wring the hands of the watchtower when it is her time to tell the truth to the night. The sand harms the watchmen like a butterfly dancing on a hot witch doctor’s hat as he hands out prescriptions for new shoes and a waistcoat from 1927

 (which is still being hanged in my closet)- the watchmen sit on the train in silence. We are all waiting for something to happen whilst we slumber and cough.

Above the screaming children, I sat in my favorite tree and watched the old men walk by in their sneakers and blue shorts- all wearing the high socks and swinging their arms from side to gander the flower, the brick pathway: I saw the laugh of old eyes and memorized the body language of everyone walking by.

 The swan believing itself to be a frog, hopped in its flatfoot feet and croaked into the morning air, waddling with the swine, they discuss the afternoon tea and the uncanny disappearance of all the mushrooms that used to sit and chat in my front yard, just below my swinging tree.

I miss you when the moon is out, you seem to hang there like a shadowed light and I wish you could hear me from your height. Call out against the warfare sirens, the gods shake their fists and are getting bored: we are ever just the chess players and game watchers. Feathers float down from the birch trees and I kept looking up and never saw that damn bird fall from sky to a branched suicide, caged we sometimes feel as if we see nothing that is standing and gloating in front of us.

Gender confused and fervently queer, I cater to the unknown- creep the freak in the head and through the body, we electric each other into other dimensions. I gave a sigh and went through the smoke shutters and the ice pick to enter in to the shadows under the carpet. Never knowing what you may find in this average musky setting- tree trunks with lightening marks where fire surged through the insides, lip gloss lovers, candied apples and a feeling of playing pool in the basement.

I think I’d rather further along my own way, narrowing the eyes of many and the lungs of others in the crowds in my bedroom today. The mixture hardens with the rest, the mad hatter will take off his hat and listen to all motions of the court- one by one and not so loudly- I know everyone has something to say about everything. Wait your turn.

My ears are only so big and my brain not much bigger. My third eye is like a volcano of expressions, channels, personalities, characters and the like. You and I are always going to be different, just the way things are.

The three wine and dine together, split me and her, we stand sacred and alone. That was at least how it felt when I was awake and asleep, I can’t speak for the in between. The grey areas usually speak for themselves. Tangerines were just not enough in the midst of all this, more aid would be nice.

You know lady gaga, Ive got to say Im starting to wonder why “I Like It Rough” as well. I didn’t want it this rough. People hating all over and many times people I did not expect. However, two can play cards. Chess is a two person monster that I am prepared to play out. Wrath has nothing on me. I ate him and then rambled on. 

The Cheshire Cat Takes The Stand

Injecting hormones into the variant brain structures that are profiting the already wealthy, I saw the stains, the tunnels of twists and turns- we writhe together in the sand pit that is burning ice cold. Pain can be breathed through in a fashion of wit and irony.

I gave the Cheshire cat his moment to purge, to lengthen, to stretch and gasp: I understand you, brothers and sisters of a coming of tirade miracles. We were warned, I suppose- wanted also,

 I believe by many to harvest powers beyond our own control much less in control if the puppet master is the culture we stand in, waist deep and rising. Awake we find ourselves scarred and scared, one life can only be lived through others, maybe, I don’t know.

I strangle the riptides just like everyone else and indeed can for-see the violent shafts of light, liquid accommodation, haunting images of New Orleans figures- beautiful with passion to ignite the fires of hell itself, keep shining, I pray you. I miss you daily. Bayou is a loved and learned experience, a habit you can’t break honey. Got to get me back there soon to “re-vamp” as I suggest we all should. Oh yes, I think so.

Give us back the night, willing to dig and drive to metal what we lost thus to regain, in time, some of our divinity. Gathering together our tough instruments, distinct talents and forever fleeting backwards into a heron pond, we bite the thirst back to flex the feeble- misfortune had its mark, the hunted can be once again haunting.

Maybe I got on the ark as a virus, morphed and fizzed into this being, from time and time against the certain current, we got free all our windows and mirrors and now descend back onto the earth.

Was it worth it, this humanity, this language of congress, initiates of other religions and demises of all kinds, left stranded with the water rising a bit below your eyelids as you float and wait for some hand, candle, tapestry of wanting to be alive: rise above your awareness.

Alice standing in front of the looking glass again, watch her eyes fade in and out with the clock- hold on to yourself and plunge in again, as you do and we follow ahead.

I listened carefully to the cries- we lament the dead, the dying, and the living. Strange times are these when everyone is afraid to stand still in a moving crowd and look around. Is this what we want? Do we like where we are headed?

Masses blinded by a shiny object in the sky that is unattainable, capitalism spat out like angels- pathologized, cyborged, and aching scream out to a darkened sky. We only live once, or so they tell me. 

Cancer Choke and Shamans

Cancer stood and then shouted in every room of my goddamn house. There was no talking him off the ledge, no bargaining for an adult conversation or a quiet discussion of pros and cons: just flax and golden dripping cells that liked to jazz the night away with his headphones on and tantrums ablaze until the thirteenth hour when the elevator seemed stuck and the liquor flows on down the hall and sinks into the carpet, secret requiem and lacrymosa valentines.

Let’s grow toxins and tumors and then build a home here, bring the kids and the grandparents and we will set up horrorshow camps in this darkened space, warped telepathic channels and dissonant esoteric figure heads that just enjoyed the sound of their own babbling voices. The brain was a shuttle bus that was never on time when the earth cancered us all, delivering our bodies to the maker and forever taking me away from my kindred hearts, my nights and mornings forever lost in the fire.

Lust and loss came in the room together holding hands. These two requested to be named together for this number and I can only cater to the faceless ghost that is the language that I have, the words didn’t bother me too much as long as they kept their mouths nailed tight shut like a orchestra conductor on his coffee break.

Incarnate cancer into an embodied angel, I shall wrestle you until the tide comes in and washes the sand off my body and away into the a stream from once I ascended onto this green and bloodied mound, this haunted and landscaped protagonist. Make me sick to my stomach with hallucinations and voices of the dead weights on earth

musing with the lightning bugs that circle the lampposts in the summer. I miss the thicket talkings with the slimy banks and muddied river as it descends into darker waters and the ice hungers to be birthed to the surface again, the distant embryo making lovers sense they are not alone in a war that will tear them and then wear them as protective gear for the undercover insurgents.

My limbs then quake from the turbulence of the storm clouds colliding, the mannequin masked faces tied to strings from heaven seemed to cry and then lapse into an iconic moment of memory loss and seizures that erupt on the planes and folds in my brother’s head. I wanted to shave off my years of living to let you have a few more moments of life time. Blood knocks hard on my brain when you lay up at night, staring at the swirling ceiling that does not forgive easy.

Cancer chokes me with my sleeping hours- mixing in time with the seconds in which my eyes are open to the dreams of my fellow fornicators and fundamentals. Coursing thunder skies above lead me to ponder the death of my sweet sanity and all of her friends lovers over the years of the monkey.

Die fiercely and forever, epitaphs that never encompassed the essence of a broad or narrow idea of a being, mostly a gloved hand holds your own as you watch the casket set into the ground. Time carries us away but does not make things easier than baking bread like my mother

used to do when I was young and confused as I am now and indeed living on lighter fluid and harsh harmonies that drown out the lead actors (causing quite an angry weatherman to predict hazardous conditions in all of the nation-states and decimal caves of the coughing underworld).

An appetite for shamans and pencil lead was not uncommon in this part of my basement, thus I let you have your way for just this once. I will die to resurrect you, the phoenix takes the fall and will not bother to ask you if you mind or what you want or where to meet once all this filthy Freud

century is over. Choice was as variant as the music that wines and dines the base of your neck, your bones weakening to temptation with the night as it is in the flesh, and tourniquet trains slid through the brains of the cancer patients yet to be discovered, yet to be shuddered and sensed out of their minds- alone with me- we shall rock and sit and talk about our next frame of reflection, the light of a candle, the end of a lovely afternoon, and the words of dying men.