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. 

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.

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. 

Melting Mirrors

The mirror

melted and oozed

its own vibrating reflection,

down the walls

of my hungry,

breathing,

thirsty creation

of a haunted bedroom.

Breathing beast and fire,

morphing identities

into formula fragmented

fancy poses of surrendered apathy,

middle aged men snacking

on paper dolls,

for shame on your sadism,

syrup and sexed blood

staining my springtime dresses,

fights with fists,

cruel words

made me slump silent

though I craved to

yell out in witching twitching

wildness against

the torrent tactics

of steal and

the malicious fortune hunters

with their sickening winking

blurry eyes.

So I hurricaned myself

from my sullen undead slumber,

contorting curvaceous concoctions

of pleasure and breath,

groans loud enough

to wake the house,

along with the creaky

floorboards,

the grandfather clock

banged on in the hallway to its

very own syncopated sweltering rhythms

causing us to be late,

your mouth on my juicy hips,

tongue between my thighs and

erotic cries,

teeth on my neck as you

thrust deep and slow and the headboard

urges us on and moans out the chorus,

though teatime is passing swiftly

with the pastel parental figures

shaking their angry watches,

cautious steps I enter

through the kitchen window

and dabbing the corners

of my delicate red mouth

with the cranky crusty napkins

of the mainstream media.

The panic attacks

ever heaping their

festering sores and

religious rites down

heavy on my

pounding migraine head,

I ate through you

to the other side of

forgiving myself

for staying,

allowing you to speak

so harsh to me,

this way and that,

repeating vicious patterns

made into origami

bouquets of blue and pink,

fevered flowers

that I cant remember

the names of

in their screaming silence

so to keep me up all night,

in the alleyways,

mischief and mayhem,

my fierce stubborn resistance

for the brain beaten down

by chemicals and despair.

To the life lived out

in raspy

wicked passion,

we raise our feisty glasses

to drink in another

fucking hot and humid day.

Pant and dancing out

of coffin nightmares,

superstition sex,

mirrors and warped reflections,

we the weary waking

can change our sorrowful courses,

directions mazed

in requiem aside,

we create the future

with miracles and light.