Embody the Drenching Electric

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow into the show of the chaotic collective a reality-eating monster. Madness lighting our way through this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and force the rain to seep through us, making us whole again and standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the fantastic riddlers of our day succumb to their ego and beauty sleep. Instead, embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 

Blood, wine, and Hope

Blood and wine

intertwined 

as broken hearts

mended in the midst

of hurricane season.

My body possessed and murky.

I surrendered my

shadowy light

to the new Aeon,

and coughed up

the rest to the end of the world

monster and mania,

that swept over

rough surfaces like

bare feet pacing through

glass fragments

and the nasty scent of

chemotherapy.

I missed rough sex

at six in the morning,

handprints on

freshly bleached white walls,

sultry syrup and juicy

awakenings,

long deep sighs lingered

and transformed,

ever so delicately,

into moans that

called the moon down

to join us high with pleasure

in the early daylight.

And Fuck it,

the sex was just that delicious

that I could’ve

written,

slurred ravenous nuanced

syllables together

to try to explain the

drug of your sexuality

in my pumping veins,

but I decided to

take hold of my tongues tight

and run away with

your cum still dripping

from my bleeding feet.

Then the Memphis bound

tornado hit

and the land-scaped,

skewed and fretted,

pacing and twitching

with tears dancing

down cheeks in hospital

bathrooms,

IV drips make me sick

and hell waited for us

outside the stain-glass window.

Cancer will drive us all mad,

make no questions, or answers, statements,

concerns, gestures, rolling of eyes, vibrations,

stanzas long enough, harpists, drugists, singers of great odes,

witch doctors, schizophrenics, seers, believers, hopers, dreamers, makers

of wishes, witches, vagrants, flagrants, bleeding hearts,

vampires licking their wounds, angel light flooded with toxins,

freelance writers, smiles in the midst of great pain and grief.

I wept while dancing

and felt free

for the first time in

a month.

Nothing is quite as it seems,

especially me,

Ive found,

the raven sings its

sullen lullabye

in my nightmares

and then in my waking visions

I saw sweet spirit gatherings,

Healing hands,

Soft touches,

and great laughters

even in the midst

of the darkness to come. 

I Awoke in Magic Harlem

I awoke in Magic Harlem
and found myself,
hours later,
waking witches from their
dank slumbers,
they whine and whimper
in their sleep
as time ticks on
and almost forgets them,
though I never will.

Damn those exhausting visions,
I see the tortured astral souls retching
in bathroom stalls across the globe,
silent tears shed by the angels in the attic,
my mind their sweet sanctuary,
for a moment,
in the midst of a maddening world.

The pain is drinking me mad,
sweeping through my spine,
you are killing me.
Burning our amazon,
our prophets in tribal earth tones.
You raping me again in my sleep,
suicides racking the shelves in my head.
I will relearn my prosthetic machinery,
and play the game too well,
checkmate.

Even so,
I'm panting in love with you,
the moon meets her artistic equal
in a flashback of liquor cabinets
and a deep moaning morphine melting.
I tried to just relax and
let you come over me slowly
but this girl got to get up
and fucking move.
I dare you to fall for me,
kiss my mouth and drip art with me.
I'm tired of trying to sit still,
dead coffins and our
reincarnations as wallflowers.

My dad was lovely too,
an orchestra of spirit and
brilliant noise.
I know though that he died loving us
more than the earth itself
and all of heaven.
He seems so far away,
even in dreams he rarely lingers.
It's been 5 years, and
I still may never forgive your god
for taking the Father away from us.
I ache in anger and sorrow daily.

And yet,
my cheshire grin
hides my secrets well
from my ever watchful audience,
and I thank him greatly for the compliment,
until the mask becomes so tight
that I can't take it off anymore,
and I suffocate under
the laughing siren
while the chime on our
grandfather clock counts to ten.

Kundalini Christ and the Vampire Thirst

Shouts and shadows
echo in the deep,
I hear the tremblings
from the far side
of the smoky mushroom.
Christ wanted a tarot reading
and so we sat on the floor and
I drew cards amidst the cacophony
of identities that I coughed through
whilst Hierophant and Change
whisper in tongues with
the Aeon playing Vivaldi on the violin in Venice.
It may have been centuries ago,
but I still remember
that smell of spices
and WitchDoctor masks in the air.

I'll set the metronome,
ever stirring up the rogue supernatural,
and weep for the rising death toll.
You spend your nights resting
on her grave thus to remember
a once brilliant illusionist for the madness,
the surge of artistry that pumps
through our throats,
taste of silicone and sage.

I purge you of that dank festering loneliness,
opening up kundalini magic,
sorcery of it's own time,
centuries of vampire hunters
and blacksmith cannibals
eating out your heartstrings
and laughing in the midst of Noah's flood.

Fine. You win.
I cave in to the creator,
rook moves three spaces forward,
though he may be in some gothic frenzy,
black robes cutting off circulation of blood
and the electric pulse quickens-
I begged you not to,
but you did anyway
and thus welled up within me
a wrath thirst of the vampire variety,
taunting me to give till I am dry,
always not telling you something,
with a faint glisten in my eye.

Black Swan Syndrome

Visions came in deep,
my body engulfed in lusting flame,
tasting the sky,
the moon in her glory days,
she sang songs with smirks
and winking eyes,
though now somewhat distraught-
the image of Heath Ledger's pills,
spread on the floor like the legs
of the red queen,
their government sanctified yellow bottles
with the white caps,
his poor blessed body
giving up on itself in mid breath.
The moon cries,
My god no more, I cannot bare the sorrow.

Some of our falling angels
are catching 'Black Swan' syndrome,
we scratch and twitch,
festering to madness under the
great pressure,
the strain bleeds out of our wrists,
razor's edge becomes the New Youth Religion,
my nightmares grow ever closer to waking up.

The mad hatter opens his one circus trained schizophrenic eye
to find that he's been,
ever so delicately,
placed in a vampire crypt
in voodootown-
The ground around him aches
to speak of blood
and rapture melodies,
syndicated sins
and the trademarks of paranoia.

We seers crave the dark,
its light touch on our skin,
soft voices in the night and
Edith Piaf on the radio.

Voodoo magic

I miss you, volcanic spirit,
driving in and out of my reality and preference.
I awoke with a start,
breathing heavy,
take one, two, three
soft steps on the carpet,
and freeze,
wait for the shadow to pass.

I whimper over your
shaking body,
live again and breathe ghost-
you haunt me ever still.
Damaged and bruised,
red dress,
high heeled black shoes,
I let you drive me mad.

Factory smell,
stank way down deep,
iron and fire and spit,
meld together
in the ethers,
I can hear the screams
from above
here-sitting on my bed.

The walls drip my sanity,
I hear the pain around me,
in and through me,
let me make it better,
Voodoo magic.

Dance out the Droid

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow to the prophetic visions of the chaotic collective astral plane, a reality-eating glorious monster. Madness lighting our way through this lower hell plane we are forced to walk, this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and plead that the rain will seep through us, making us whole again and then standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the suffering magicians of our day. Embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 

Hazy Intuition

What can I say

but that the madness is driving me crazy.

I entered the machine,

and then spat her back out,

drinking venom for a living and

a bad habit or two to spare.

The coroner’s report proclaimed

that death was on the rise,

like locusts swarming around

those houses in Egypt

that ended in mother’s cries.

Our last battle,

sitting in my room,

between ashes and the radio,

still has me spinning,

wondering if love even can carry

all of this weight from the astral plane,

plummeting me into despair so deep

I can only see the bottom of my shoes.

The intuitions seemed hazy and forgetful,

though there will soon be

a change in the wind

and our bodies will emerge from the

marshes of New Orleans,

and we will dance together and through

the fire,

not feeling a thing.

Our prophets will come to us

through the mists of minds,
or even better we will become
our own goddamn prophets.

We are coming out of the dark,

high pitched euphoria and
and enlightened mayhem,

the earth raining from the sky,

sandpits overturning
to set their sights on the rain,
and the sphinx starts talking
in the old language,

ravens hissing in the new year.

Phoenix appears in the skies of the west,

there are stirrings under the ground,

armies of angels
that are mistaken for monsters,
form through time

and painful beauty,

eating up the blackholes of
money making war games
that will not stand for too much longer.

But the razor still scrapes against the steel
of death’s sinking boats
springing leaks and gasps for air,

you plunge into ice water and are sung

to sleep by the sirens of the red queen.

Muses hide their many masks

sometimes until drowning.

I caused the queen her crown.

The Energy Monster's Playground

            I suppose I should speak clearly, even if for just a moment. This memoir is at a standstill with so much paraphernalia resting in my hindsight. I replay the nights of coughing depression and thoughts of suicide when I was in sixth grade and my friends were trying on those fashions that split the skies with the times. I slide in and out of melancholia due to the bloody visions, the memories that I can’t place as either mine or someone else’s: the dissociation of a girl just sitting in her room counting down the minutes until the sky falls. I wish there was a happy unending, but I don’t know what the future can see in me to stay up all night and wake me up from my moment of rest by the water tides rising.

            Can we cure the cancer that hunts us down? Staggering and in denial we shake our heads and walk towards the horizon until the sun goes down. Our gaits longer, our eyes wider as we hear the words of the incurable diseases. Mad hatters, we are made from the fires and ices of the new dawn when the witching hours prove themselves worthy of a quiet moment’s meditation and the laser surgeries are found unnecessary.

            I want to change, morph into the energy monster that paces impatiently in my head waiting for the right moment to unleash its power from within: talons sharpening, teeth wide and grinding together. As corporations flood with enemies, as the masses accept the way things are with their skulls distorted and contorted into the mind asylums of the liquor power anti-prophets. I listen to my playlists and channel their inhabitants, the collective consciousness was a like beacon lamppost in the all encompassing and ever thickening night of the astral plane. It seemed as if I dead ended my own identity so as to flirt out through the genders and identities that I found empathy within, and I did love to have the scenes played before me, your actions and the unconscious desires were the themes that I rendered the most attention. I watch bodies tense and shake off their frustrations, interrelations, and try to hide the sadness that seeps through eyes the most when you sit and listen to someone with your eyes open to their possibilities.

            Sneak past the mundane human reactions and beneath this earthen crusty surface, there was a myriad of aesthetics and in the dark regions of the soul there was yet more fuel for the dangerous of our species. The mediums that I come to learn from and exercise those ethereal senses are looked at as the court jesters of our time. Where are our believers and artists that hunt inwards to find and connect with the sprits of the others in the abyss that edges on madness and equilibrium.

            I desire a quantum and religious dissonance, a space to unlock our chains of certain insanity verdicts by our forefathers and the Freudian latex industries of medication and Oedipus. I find these psycho-hyper publications of making anyone that is non-forming out to be a natural disaster to our society totally unnecessary and irreverent. Embracing our oddities, our inconsistencies, our brainwashing banter, we arrive at the core of our destruction: be watchful, for our puppet master is changing into a new sort of machine. 

The Religion of Robotics

Headaches anonymous meetings continue regardless of the temper tantrum weather that crashes down on our heads the size of pinwheels. I have grown silent as of late due to the need to communicate through micro-expressions and folly furniture. Was there a grief that can be risen above: destroyed by some grandiose leisure or flammable log cabins in the woods when you were nine and killed your first rabbit for dinner and you cried once the deed was done and the limp flesh sizzled while roasting on the spit. Guilt seethes to conquer our virtues that we count on our fingers, one at a time, to make sure it was worth it to wake up this warn down body in the middle of the afternoon.

I was so angry at the world for delving me deep and cutting me short with scissors that I shrunk to the size of a virus and left the earth for a time to contemplate the angels falling and the vast canyons under the ocean. The brilliance of the moonlight glistens the water awake and as she sets, her mouth gently kisses the everglades’ edges until tomorrow. We all mood swing to the beat of a capitalist psychoanalysis drum- as it is in constant thumping out of what we are to want to buy, need to buy, must have to survive: cosmetics and feelings of cool and that the world is driving itself insane.

We arrive with the weather to the tollbooth of insincerity and found that all of us had our lies to keep, our secrets to furrow deep in the base of the brain, the diseases we have yet to catch and craft the spells of the witch hunters that betrayed their own kin to the policed thought taverns and tourniquets. Mass graves drift in and out of sleep and screaming redemption to a god that seems to be busy unlearning the mechanics of our human-machine sex appeal as we transition to the religion of robotics.

Counting the human to ghost cross-overs as I toss and toss again, waiting to notice the blood dripping from your eyes and the spider in your skull. The artists cater to no man and then unknown they escape the pilgrimage to the intersection of sell-out and sanctuary. To not create would be a sin huge enough for my desperate need for confession.

I raced the hare and found him sleazy and confrontational. And I awoke from my dream to go to the unmarked grave tribunal. The war crimes, dirty rhymes, pick-up lines and scarlet women dance just out of eyesight once the night takes us back in time to see our history unfold like a snake sheds its skin. I am plagued by the bloodthirsty; the medicine man shuffles into town and could save the world though the masses see a revolution as a waste of time and money. But what is still left unknown is that if we are the souls of intervention, when can our chorus begin?

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. 

the festival of fools and graphic novels

The festival of fools and graphic novels is just starting as you arrive at our next chapter. We enter in to our mad house with a grin and stilettos, ribbon twist up thighs and linger close to the skirt that she wears when she goes out. Lucifer and his vikings (before the fall) lead the pathway to the holy ghost who is burning himself alive again as he watches this particular circus go through the towns and cities of our beloved past and present again to be the future soon.

The jokers kept the place tidy while you were away and their black coats and white gloves leave us remembering their faces that light up the mirrors on the other side once and awhile. We stare in and through them and don’t know how this trick is done.

The carpet lays out a red assembly line through the curves and passageways of this old slump of a building found on the corner of vanish and wicked. We make ends meet inside of us and collect you for the awakening. These disembodied hands dancing through the air like birds as we look up to the cathedral like foyer.

Rooms of labyrinth mirror lands we walk through and see with awake eyes all of our various characters and the fornicators and the suicide makers and the hanged man swings through the mirrors we are running from unless you can stand there and stay still.

Angels call us to elemental forecasts and we are swept up and carried through the quick sands that waterfall through this room of only keyholes. Where green and purple look like different colors entirely and the entities snicker at the duller of the masses that have an understanding that one gets out alive, one wakes up from this dream.

Once we do wake up from this sensory overload, our voices soften and we huddle together for fear of falling. The tower of this crafty illumination carried us away from angry stock marketers with their hung faces and slips of shots of whiskey for whom those bells toll their deafening secrets of the traitors and traders. I lost my way among the throng and end up falling asleep ever so stealthily in the ivy-covered moors just inside our fun house to wake in the morning and wonder if it was all an encouraged nightmare.

Yes, there is a monster

            On eves of the hallowed, the lady fair walks out of her red doorframe and into the night with a cup of coco. Pumpkin heads on stakes with candles inside that give the impression of glow and stare as she lifts off her heals and peels out to the moon as if the ground would never be enough for her in a world in which she was destined to pretend that she was dirt bound. Creation took flight and thus she was able to see beyond the barriers of weight and gravity and seemed to receive a peace that the earth could not give her on nights when she became so forlorn that she wanted to lay down on the floor and be sucked into the under planes for a time.

            My God, My God. Who am I and where do I fit into this realm that stretches me shallow and rips me into pieces for the “common good”. I must choose to be derailed, disinclined to see the material as the majestic. Let us softly caress in the deep moments of prophet serving and diamonds could be forgotten once their sheen dulls and duels for our attention.

            Who is he that looks restless back at me in the mirror when I am angry and surging to change the defeat and surrender all that I see in the world of the real. I come from time warps and chastised brethren that falter with each new idea of empathy and mischievous undertaking. To directly pursue the phantoms that float in and out of my periphery cackling and shaking their fists with smirk and purpose. I sweat eagerly to find ways in which to be truly alone when I am not in the presence of another human form. The afterlife and the dimensional realms that encircle us are hard to quiet once they break the barrier with you one day when you are sitting drinking coffee and listening to what have you done when the nightmares start to get worse for the wear and wear me out in the nighttime when really I want to close my eyes and forget the visions that flash through my mind.

            Fight force with passion creativity and Armageddon is coming to sweep us off of our carpet stains and mail orders into a setting of warlords and the twilight monsters of the molten earth. Is there doubt in my mind that life is supposed to good, that people don’t die before they are ready, that as we sit and spit we are all dying and some unfairly so.

            To conclude this delusion of severance from the tiger’s eye and all these fine vibrating spaces around us, we twirl fortunate that these frail bodies do give us a place to sleep for the night. I end up in a rabbit hole regardless of what time it is anywhere. It would seem as if that is my purpose and I habit it as well I can. The fervor in my voice would have made you believe I was an animal of wit and magic maybe but I don’t know for sure. I seem uncertain of myself with all masks aside and put on the bathroom shower curtain to draw conclusions and dry for a spell. I am misanthropic fatal as seen by my performative audience.

            Channeling to the whole is difficult to judge by in the terms of through the white columned hallways and byways of international skepticism. Lying only became me when I was a monkey in the tree outside my neighbors’ house maybe on some Wednesday night when I didn’t have anything else to do. Yes, there is a monster of sorts that hides lonely and eager to get some stage presence in our drama for today, but I don’t let him out often in circumstances of the vile we drink out of.

            Where is our conference room in which I could read this out loud and explain- or demanded to try at least to whisper in the minds of the folk I live around. It was an odd assortment of discipline and slippery moonshine. Twas Brillig and so forth, and I was humbled by your presence in our house again. Was there anything I can get you? A piece of my mind to munch on casually or a scene from the hole in the ground... I was too shy to simply say what I mean and confront you in the mirror, dear players and characters of my mind infinite set in my brain that seemed more confusing than when I started this writing endeavor. 

Masked Ball beyond the mirror: the mad house performed

The mad house performed for tonight is an insanity masked ball with full plumage and feathers falling slowly from the rafters: dead doves screech aching to the chessboard floor though, through the deep transistor dancing, no one notices. We are all glimmer and gold, reckoning to each other in a waltz made for magic lanterns and forest forgetting. The masses dance to the tune of the puppet king sitting on the throne at the forefront of the room: masked suffocated doll in its own dollhouse that we wreck back to every night for we didn’t seem to have another option.

I know there is always a choice if you are aware of the spoon fed to your lips and you stand and walk out of the front door into the dark-if you can run faster than a whisper. Though we retch of vanity, our costs for devotion seems lower on the totem pole in the middle of the room than seemed worthy of our talents.

Etchings of unborn languages and tribes of mystics that have fell to co-option and death to the heretic: we burn at the stake for the wings of the leviathan are ever growing and wrapping us close to their sides. The Judas Complex came drifting through the ballroom like a cold chill from an open window set to face the stormy sea that brought us here on waves of tribulation and apathy.

The mad hatter stands in shadow and watches these religious rites performed through disease and disguise: nothing is as it seems in the halls of the mountain kings. I never wake fully from the strings and serenades of the amercian dream of pop pulp and fruit shavings left on the kitchen counter and forlorn. Hatter wails the call of the drinking dawn: arise and wake to the fullest extent of your being. We, caged without bars in our “pleasant little dream and fancy” we are told over and over through the deep voices of the fear of a nation. All is false and fair in the ride of the carnal and carnivale.

Spring forth with reckless passion and dissonance, you lionesse of sex magic and complex cognition. Once your mouth open and letting the bats fly out of your tongue and the ecstasy flows unfulfilled through your mainstream- there is no turning back for the wondering innately insane.

I relish at the art of manliness and mayhem and murdering epitaphs that resort us to one function of the Capital and heads of state. The heavens are burning and I can feel the ash on my skin as I watch the passion stifled and the masses end up sucking on a rat’s tail thinking it was sugar cane. When will we learn, my company of counterfeits, that pain of one is pain of all.

My antics and rhetorical statements seemed unaltered by the alters set up around this room of clowns
staring. I twitch to the idea of control of the monster inside me- tamed and tortured defeat, I may rest for a moment though my eyes sink in deeper unto themselves with every staggered breath. Words fall and fail to complete me, to explain the bloody horse chains that keep our heads down to the floor, our 
forseen purpose to step one sole ahead of another and leeching our souls out to the stock market. We thus so distracted by pain that we forget to look behind us and witness the man holding our reigns, teething on our energies. Nuance and nausea woke me with a gasp and shutter. Revolt. Spit fire. Regain consciousness and awaken. 

The Game of Bones

Was it so wrong to carry the thoughts of holocausts around with you- never to forget lives lost in the name of control and intervention. The breath of the beast is on the face of the personality that is at the back of my head, following like the rats to the piper. This cancer made amends with the government and then made us stop and stand naked under the moon, thrashing and cursing the skies out of which we came.

Would you have me for a late lunch snack and justify the means through the eye of a pinball machine? I think so, if you can catch this nightingale undertow as I ebb and flow through your skin and out of the window in the back of your mouth- resistant to the linear thoughts that pattern my house in the daytime.

I sought after ghost stories and galaxies of endorphins, pining for their markers in the horizons abroad and south for the spring and the summer. It’s too hot here for thinking so I will march to the drum you left in my closet, for a faint fleeting moment, and then pick up the game of bones that we were waltzing with to the tune from the firefighters guild in the circus ring.

Forked- I was forgotten and lip synced away into the bowels of rapid hounds that bite the ankles of their loved ones to metaphor a scene from my dreams last night. Could I have written all these signals wrong? Tainted came the fall of my intellect and all that remains in spitting verses of cerebellum madness. 

Tapped Telephone Wires: Medication Media and Madness

            Telephone wires were cut way too much in the city of supposed seraphim. You ran to those corners daily to get the news that the devil came back into town today, wearing an apron. I stumbled upon the hermit daily, talk it out through me and we will all hear you, one way or another. I will not falter at the last steps towards a new age and times changing into the infinite. We march on, regardless of the temperature (though it is stifling hot out there to be sure).

Apart for the medications media and the melancholy madness, how are you? I seem to be somewhere in between desert storm and a chainsaw through the mad hatter’s hat. Bones are scattered in the sand, left driving us home in the middle of the night just after the bad storm that shook the house's tight rafters and below.

It was rotten luck to catch the steal wagon on a blazing day as this one, the wheels burning and slightly crooked, veering towards the right. Exhausted from interrogation and searing tongued vertigo, I wait- for time to erase itself. Ancestors’ role-play in their graves and wait for you to wake up, hide behind something else for awhile.

The caged know-it-alls sit in their thrones and panic on the moats around the bedroom, I shake as well sometimes for fear of it again. 

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.