Candlelight and Asphalt

My nightmares

woke themselves up sick

with sticky alarm clock noises,

windows taken out

of their frameworks,

tiptoe tapping out

their despair

on the hardwood floor,

glass shards stripping

whilst I watched

their sharp edges twisting

in the moonlight streams.

I slumped over in my

queen size bed,

sheets

sweat sex soaked

by some brassy whispered man

who drank screwdrivers

and laughed,

to cover awkward moments and

my eyes staring

through his head

to the back wall of my room,

wondering when all this

silly business

would be over and

he could stumble out,

into the streets,

leave me alone

with my candlelight.

Whether you wanted

to watch or not,

I danced trauma

out the body,

flooding onto the asphalt,

the way music embarks

on a journey down

your insides,

in the heat of the

pulsing lights,

mirror and make-up masks,

ghosts in their taunting sanctuaries,

blood in vials,

singing out its sweet syrup requiem,

calling upon the angels,

wanting to again

tangle and twist

round bones,

thump in veins

that resurrected

ideas of hell of heaven,

depending on the worn out weather,

and the days and the way

waves of ether energy

circuited the brain.

I could feel myself

pushing new waltzing

people away,

putting up fronts

and barriers,

fences so fierce

and foreboding,

because deep under the earth inside me,

I wanted to trust you,

believe that I deserved

love like yours,

but still quivering

in my storms

that raged in me

and the learned path

of wicked brier,

death and abuse,

the past ripping

my pained flesh

away from my

tender skin,

couldn’t turn off the

mayhem and flashbacks,

harsh manipulations,

fucks that made

me nauseous,

rapes of my innocent self,

cascades of

gritty egos and

religious doctrines

forced on me

under the cruel guise

of love and helping me out,

away from my perceived dirty habits.

I didn’t want to be saved

by the nasty likes of you,

licking the wounds

on me,

that you yourself

had inflicted

and then laughed about.

I purged your toxins

out of my system,

all day,

every day,

with a frozen shudder

in hopes that

I can rise above you,

out of the murky marshes,

into the delicate arms of trees,

looking skyward. 

The Nightingale Sings the Blues

The shining eye of

that howling sun

left me parched and

pleading to the sky

for one more desperate

day in the lightning

that she covered my house

with,
in her

erotic holy

sighs,

heard only

if you were paying

half of your attention.

Our horned demons

of contraceptive clinical

controversy,

whipping and quipping whimsy

thick forked tales

and sloppy tongues

persuading us that

we were less than deserving.

I rose up to

exorcize fanciful fucks,

faking orgasms galore at teatime,

rhetorical subliminal

messages raking

breathing burned coals

on our delusion days,

skin so soft it

blisters in the long nights

of anxious waiting

for the world to start

its counterclockwise

rationale,

quick slick tilting of lands

beyond naked nursing sight,

but thundering in

sound and energetic brassy

magnitudes

with their sultry raspy chords.

We invisible astral bodies

quaking in rhythm

to each other,

bumping and humping

to the heartbeats of

earthen tides with

the moon in our wake,

we ache to be free of

the construction:

bars, cages, euphemisms,

sly manipulative beatings

and scissors sniping at

the staircases that we

wanted to descend down,

to the dripping dance floor in

glorious waves of euphoria.

I am a fucked harsh artist,

trying not to give a damn

about your cruel

dimensions,

obviously feigned

sweet salutations,

your wasted efforts

of arthritis and dementia,

mania lapped up like

dogs to lake water

on a humid day in florida

where you soak in sweat and

pant epitaphs just to regain consciousness.

Stop it,

enacting punchy pick up lines,

sleazy stereotypes scratched

down my bloody aching back in

the heat of the moment

left me deathly dangerous

on your floor that smelled

like post-vomit drinks and mildew.

I refuse to be another

no-name numbered girl

to hang in your closet

of accessories along with

bragging rights to

esteemed colleagues

of cool.

Fuck you, thanks.

I grabbed my weeping dress

disheveled

and got the hell out of there,

putting my shoes and socks

on in the car,

breathing deep down to

my swollen lungs,

heading off the panic

at first glace and second

sermon.

Marry him because you must,

the bruises are your fault

scoffs the dresser drawers

oozing their dirty diatribes.

Be her please

sneers the wives on main street,

snifters buzzing and swishing

their bent noses back and forth

to the ticking of the watchtower-

instead of just this silly stupid self of mine,

repeating the glossy sheen surround sound

media man.

Tourniquet temptress

has a hard time with trusting

anyone because experience

has taught her that no one

ever stays,

due to deadened eyes,

death certificates,

cold remarks

because it made you feel

better to put someone else

underfoot than

find glints of hardened

truth in your own fucking face

in the midst of rites of

religion and politic propaganda.

Thus I closed my

tainted eyes to

your twisting lies

and looked northward

into the moonlight,

awakened away from

the malice and

coffin banging hypnotics

that made snide

remarks in the echoes

of consumerism.

You tasted like sweet Spanish moss

after a hurricane,

damp and foreboding in

its voodoo swing,

halos falling off their filthy

angels,

floating downstream

to some new horizon

where the twilight

makes loves to the sea,

and I felt that warm

hearth sense of home

settling gently down to

my tingling toes,

filling me up

with reverence and

glittery glow as

the grandfather clock

waves goodnight through

the gloom

while the nightingale sings the blues. 

A Madhatter Toast

Ode to the People:

Cheers my

sisters and brothers!

Lets raise a glass

of absinthe or

bourbon straight,

margaritas on the rocks

to stallions and cigarettes,

fairies in trees,

Irish whiskeys with jigs

in the twilight.

Here’s to Salem witches,

their poor bodies burning,

and especially to those

prophetic perverts,

dragons in an age

of dying magic,

we rock back and forth

with the tide.

And here’s to the believers,

hell,

I can respect that faith

though my dad died

young and left me stranded

so I revolted and spat on the ritual rites

of mainstream media religion

and then,

well of course,

in the fall,

fell for an Order Oracle,

faith folders,

rock paper scissors

rapes by

robot masochists,

of sorts,

and over in

my bedroom lay

thinking of

the ceiling fans

in rooms of

my daughters round the world,

abused and befallen,

I danced a long

bloody waltz

for you in

collective consciousness,

I performed for

the chessboard,

you asshole,

not your raspy idiot

hanged man,

not the high mighties

and their

grasshopper injectors,

I cast you out,

demon fool.

And drinks

with extravagant lovely

toasts,

to those lost

dark eyed boys,

riding the sea

as if they owned her,

I watched you

in grocery stores,

cocaine drifting

sniffers

under fevering festering

florescent lights,

lifting ladies skirts

with licking lips,

snickers and many snarlings,

blisters and boils,

plagues of old heresies

holding you back,

and ahh

fuck it,

just dive in

and let the water

wash over you

with well and welcoming

in the moon

and the night,

healing your scars,

our wounds,

amen.

And holy shite,

I almost forgot,

c’est la vie.

Lifting cups to moist lips,

roasting sweet elixirs,

here’s to the

people from out of the woodwork
staggering out of the wallpaper to

wrestle the angels,

they come,

in shouts,

in soft voices,

late stirrings,

tunes played loud

through headphones,

on futons,

mattresses

slurred along with

sloppy mouths,

tongues etching bodies,

tight cunts,

deep fucks,

ink stains.

To the British

comedy tv shows,

played at 4 in the morning

when no one else

seemed to be aware

of our screaming planet,

aching for release,

dripping pleasure

over sheets,

in hotel rooms

with whiskey sours.

To the earths

revolutions round n about

the universe,

metaphysical planes,

stretching and moody,

drinking way too

much coffee,

giving handjobs

on horrible

orange shag carpeting

with metallica

on the phonograph.

To origami flowers

given to first girlfriends

of estranged

lesbian tendencies.

To the masculine

aqueducts,

the builders of

great art and photography

that left her

with a tear

raining down,

ecstasy and excellent,

hard huge cocks,

wrapped round the thick thighs of time.

To orgasms in

the mornings,

on the way to work,

in bathroom stalls,

grease pits,

office supply closets,

hands gripping bedposts,

asses slapping hard,

thumping with
pulsing organs,

heart and lungs,

bones and requiem.

To the glint of purpose,

a path,

a non-suicidal moment,

an end that’s always and already

a beginning,

to the troubled

in their weary ways,

raise a glass. 

Her and Him

Here comes the water weeping,
I shake to satisfy the thirst
of dirty prophets and their beasts alike.
My voice is lost in the
clatter of the living and the dead.

When we close our eyes
we see fire and ice,
sex and religion,
holy and cursed,
fabrications of a mind twisted in pain.

I tempted death,
even laughed with him
in a bar shaped like a
chicken egg
in a small town called Nantucket,
near the swamps down there and to the left.

We ate gin
and shot some pool
with several showgirls
from across the street,
a little joint called the Opus Lounge,
where you can watch
silk slink off a table
23 times an hour.

A lesson in Awakening: Megan's story for today heh

A lesson in Awakening:

           

            Awakenings are happening everywhere, at rapid paces and in the oddest of spaces. Revolution is only an eye’s blink away, starting from within and burst out of you like fire-breathing dragon bursts out of a theatre (the production was not a very good rendition of any play you fancy but hate when the actors massacre the thing: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers (a musical that I love but would hate to see some group ruin it), any lame version of anything King Arthur (I hate this), etc.

            So we are fire-breathing angry dragons, out of our shells and free to roam. Where do these Awakenings happen? They happen while waiting for the subway in New York and you hear the most painful beautiful rendition of “Sittin on the Dock of the Bay” by Otis Redding. The smile is taken off your face (just for a moment) and you realize that the world can be cruel and ugly, though beauty always surpasses (in my opinion) the negative. 

You just have to keep your eyes open for the small and the beautiful. Awakenings happen on a day (almost like any other) when you step out of the shower and look in the mirror. This is it. What are we here for? What are my goals? Who am I? Tis big shit to handle. That’s alright though, walking down the street, seeing the rain pour down outside your window, beauty in small measures as well as big.

            Co-option is a scary thing. I just want to warn you of this. Do not let yourselves be co-opted by things if at all possible. Co-option is alright if you have a plan to counteract. If you need/want to play the game, then you do that. I just want you to know that there are some ugly people out there that I have fought in dreams and just get weary. I know there are parties to be had and riots of the mind to attend, but it can be hard to fight back these shadows alone. 

I do not want this blog to be attacked for being unfeeling or unappreciative of all sorts of awakenings and persons of any queer, weird, thinking differently at all from the machine. I do not mean any offense. This is my personal experience. I can’t help but ache for your problems and your pain. Trust me my fellow psychics, queers, people in any kind of pain, turmoil of the soul or the body (I experience both so I get that). I just want you out there in the cosmos to know you are not alone. 

I put pop references (though these people can appear extreme- ) in my blog so that you can feel that you are not alone. Pop media people (some of them) feel your pain as well like Lady Gaga, . This is not just some stunt for attention. This is an honest exposure of myself, the individual that I am and how I feel about things.

            Just tread carefully because our words and our thoughts and ideas have shapes and ideas of their own. Shapes and shadows are good as long as you have a bit of control over them... I have seen dreams turn into nightmares many a time so I just want to warm on that front. Be prepared for that (don’t give up the project altogether...) 

No, that would be blasphemous at this point. So much good work being done, sun finally shining through dark red curtains. I thank you for your heart and applaud all of you who have written on this blog, written and posted somewhere to get your thoughts out loud- I congratulate you on your bravery. But I tell you there are monsters lingering in the dark yet to show their faces and it will be quite the brilliant battle. I look forward to it, Thank you for letting me share in your journeys and you share in mine.