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.

Anarchy Body

Giving gentle thanks

to the bright blood

cardinal,

that sings daily

outside my window,

the trees teaching

me earth breathing,

I felt the ancients with

their old ground n

fire languages,

soothe my aching skin,

sleep deeply,

for even just

a breath,

then the world glows alive

with resonance and wicked beauty,

made me yearn for something

more.

And look,

I know you

with rolling eyes,

deep sighs,

slurping down

beer bottles in

kitchens with

pastels,

cow motifs and

casual heroin,

cups and saucers,

daydreaming in

wrathful colors,

squirming round

in your sleep,

damn honey,

the lonely starting

to fuck with you,

start seeing strange creatures

crawling through even stranger

nightmares,

seeing lies instead of truths,

weeping willows,

blah blah blah,

shut your goddamn head up,

if you can,

dances in the dark,

headphones and

cats and tears on pillows,

softly,

wrapped up snuggly

in heavy blankets,

amidst a heat wave,

to wreak out the

memory of touch.

Ah!

such weary aching

and untapped sweet magic

could change the world,

if we could just

get out of bed,

in the morning,

with vast

coffee cups

and

scribbled poems,

tattered clothes,

let us tear our masks off,

together,

show our bloodied noses,

our busted eyes,

our broken eardrums,

and those scars

tell a history,

experiences survived,

they don’t define

your future,

my dear.

Sunshine stepping,

We unveil,

standing naked,

in our tears and

beat down bones,

we commune

in light and love and pain,

then to awaken,

anarchy bodied,

divinity dancing

out the tops of our head,

through our fancy fingers,

deep throats,

weak elbows,

bent knees,

healing feet.

Come in.

Heretic Entertainer speaks...

Heretic entertainer,
my occupation was dirtied
by the barbershop next door with blood on his floor.
Most people see the smoke and say nothing,
the furnaces lit all night long.

Violent entertainers have joined the circus freaks,
the pythons drift to sleep,
lulled by a ceremony of rituals.

under water floating was an art formula,
I saw mathematics in my rear window,
every day of this fucking road.
God save the queen, I am getting tired.

Let us candor one last melody before the departed grave.
Rise up against the sun,
breathing and haunting our realms again,
once over and backwards,
giving into the thought of night and being here.

safety forgotten in the tumult,
we lay down for our "sins", I suppose,
if we must.

I don’t want to though and I don't see my mistakes as sins anyway,
they help me learn,
and remember to not forget, as it were.

Listen to your own heartbeat,
try and fix the history if you want to
but I would focus separate and within, on the now.
The water is getting close to the sand
and we are tuning into this perception,
this channel is changing and we are moving
and sinking with it.
Keep close and breathe it out.

Secrets and dynasties are not going to aid us forever,
We need new language and resistance
to serpentine fluids injected
into the brains of our ancestors.

I can urge you forward if you care to drink
unmarked bottles,
speak in wicked tongues as saints of the underworld.

I am an empath to the so-called demons,
listening to their haggard tales and tears,
lay soft in my lap
and I will stroke your hair
until the screaming in your head
slows to a stop.

while the bastards in the belfry
are howling out for help,
I cannot just let them suffer.
I take the inferno staircase alright,
no harm comes to us if we remember
who we really are,
light mists and angels alike,
though fallen to the crust of the earth,
we are still golden.

I wanted to aid the haunted and the tormented...

I wanted to aid the haunted and the tormented and it seemed to me that this was a valid desire in a world such as this one. I felt bruised in my struggle to connect. Inspire fires in the underworld, my want to help is so strong. I don’t mind sifting through the bullshit that you put in front. I don’t mind waiting while you watch

and listen and sometimes laugh. I will wait, ever so distantly and patiently, until you get your shit together and want to talk about things that are real, that are happening to you every day. I don’t mind. I am very patient (at lease I try to be).

You sit down in your misery and confusion and refuse to budge from that stained and static plane. I want to (not fix it) open up in you a want to discuss and reflect and experience and grow. I want you to be able to feel the deep misery of

despair and ruin. I don’t mind if you express that. You own those bad things in your life, I applaud you for your honesty and character. It sink down into that deep feeling of ugly is something that I think is important. It is part of the process and I embrace it.

We can come back to this place whenever you need to. But I think we need to be learning and doing positive things in there too. We can’t just mingle in the mud. I want to be able to talk about serious shit about the world too. There are other things going on in the world that affect you too but we need to talk about those things too.

The meta-physical world seems to be screaming to me and I think we need to band together in community and work some stuff out. We need a plan, not just about you or me but about how we can start to change the world we live in.

Not every conversation can be about you honey, sometimes you need to grow up a little bit and think about the world. But I am patient. I will wait for you to get there, somewhere behind you.

The world is a crazy place. With all the racism, sexism, homophobia, (and the list goes on forever) how are we going to get anywhere? We need a plan to start to move and shake our communities. I mean, even small actions can be triumphs and shake the earth a bit (in ways we don’t even realize) and these things can change.

Writing, for example, I think is one of my best ways to open up discussions. I want to know what you think about anything that I am saying. Let’s start a conversation. I’m saying some pretty wild stuff or maybe you have heard this all before? I don’t know. Because no one is speaking up. I would love for you to tell me your thoughts (if they are long).

Start talking about it to everyone and let’s start some revolting (I don’t mean angry violent revolting.... no violence for me thanks) but talking is a step in the right direction. Writing and talking. And really, when I say writing (this is just my way of trying to change things) you can be doing all kinds of other things to change things, revolt,

if you will (in a non-violent way... I keep saying this because I am not gonna be responsible for some idiot getting so riled up reading this that he/she goes and gets violent on anything)...

You can start a dance troop, write your own blog about what you think about all this stuff, respond to me, talk to your friends, write to your senators and governors about things you feel strongly about, read the issues that are out there

(learn information about things you are passionate enough about to write it down (send it to your friends, do a blog, make music in protest, make art, any kind of art at all, humanities are art kinds of people too, this is a very broad and big group of people) or express it in some artistic way.

I am personally writing this blog to spark even one person to read it, talk about it to someone, email it to a friend, discuss it with pastors, teachers, mentors, thinkers, philosopher, spiritual people, any thing of this nature. I am just so desperate to change something in a few people. I love my family and I am supporting them in any way that I can but I also really believe that the world can change and that there is hope.

There is film that is changing the way things are as well: documentary film, honest film (even of a personal nature I think is still so beautiful and brings me closer to spiritual enlightenment) films that make you think and talk.

I do not mean to advocate really violent films however, I do not like blood like honesty (lets see how many guts and blood we can smash into a film) or torture movies of any kind... or really even scenes of torture. I hate this stuff. I am not advocating films such as:

The Antichrist (the Dogville’s director film not the other one), I don’t know really anything with torture in it is really just not acceptable to me. This movie business is supposed to be entertainment not trauma inducing centers. Movies like The Happening (oh hell no.... I actually walked out of this movie- it was just that awful- sad, and not entertainment) are not good for my psyche (I swear to God it is true).

So I am just trying to ignite something, maybe. I feel as if I am not getting through and people are not paying attention and so apathy and indifference to social change. I can’t stand to watch more intelligent arty people get traumatized by bad shit (this can be defined in the broadest of terms) and then give up and die in a spiritual way (artistic way) or they actually die.

Hey, and we all have our problems... I know I do. I’m a mess half the time. So I know it isn’t easy. I just hide it sometimes cause I don't want you to worry about me. I am writing, I am doing what I have to do to make it through.

The underworld was coming up....

The underworld was coming up through the floorboards as I watched a PBS special on the Knights Templar and Kate Bush. Was it respect they demanded, from under the ground, or was it just a tithe, a relic to find and kill over, slaying children in the street, beating the night with blood stained wrist watches, that will be burned to the god of poverty and guilty conscious. I can’t seem to slide out into the dark to watch the crucifixion of the seventh seal, a dripping wax candle stands in the middle, chanting about the end of the world and cursing the light and the son, the prophet of the chessboard. Screams from the women who’ve lost their birthing womb, run through with a spear in the side, hung on the cross of “third world countries.” The feathers are falling, falling off my wings that force me to see myself in the mirror: I will look into the glass, shattered and fragmented, and smile with content that the world is not perfect and I can only sleep with my eyes open. Another casket walks by and sighs, listening to the rain that falls above him, as I sleep near this cold stone epitaph that keeps him chained to the earth, he is being dragged down by the inferno and sarcasm hides the pain that he feels.
- Megan Coleman

Fight. Leave. Learn Something.

Can you give me a light
at the end of the tunnel,
and the grave of the candle-maker?
I wouldn’t mind,
hitchhiking to the gates of hell,
a laugh with a shake of my head.
As I headed deeper into the trees of desperate silence,
you turned back and crawled in a coffin
with a heretic,
whose name remains unknown to me...
how unbelievably typical.
I suppose I should’ve seen this coming,
a burning sensation on the side of my face,
and then a shudder of knowing,
you know?
The sun shrank back behind the moon,
afraid of her capacity to glow
and muse to the prophets below, howling.
The sun then gave up on his morning coffee,
and headed back to work,
a desk job in the suburbs of the suburbs.

Why can’t you just see me?
Tamed and pulled tight,
my skin felt melted and clammy.
To stand in the river,
was about all I could do to save you
from yourself
and the cocaine lightly brushed
over your eyelids.

In the serendipitous moment of supposed serenity,
I choose to lay with the living,
the undead coughing,
loudly,
in my ears.
Forget the fly,
I will be the stain,
on the floor,
in your closet,
that you’ve covered with your dress shoes,
and the trumpet you never play.

The triangle in the sky,
was the key to the underworld.
No lanterns needed,
in a place ablaze-
passion of all kinds seemed to be found wanting?
Cold chalk on the blackboard,
my ghosts and I,
sitting on the porch at dusk,
only wanting to talk about the weather,
for there was nothing else that we could say.
- Megan Coleman

Stream of Consciousness- Fishhooks and Frostbite

This stream of consciousness was written by Megan K. Coleman. This was inspired by Helene Cixous’s call to write.

I was post-lingual and pre- historic. Tainted by the underdog and seraphim I gave in to the way and the light and the message of community and communal. I wanted to forget the slain horses the inside of the women’s bodies burning and the cascade of the river as it drifts the sun into a new beginning. We all know that something is coming a serpent phoenix tiger eyed pig with satan eyes and drinking out of a bottle of dirty vermouth. It concerned me that I felt “my people” are dying quickly and without explanation.
Dissociative paradimes of condensation I want I desire I need something new that does not stick me in some hole that I did not dig for myself. coffins are for the dead and not for the undead you fucking idiot the jester, the fool the magus grins and smirks to the left of his face and the right side of the road. you cornered us in the parenthetical and sang about human trafficking like it was eating cake and drinking tea with the queens of England. It was a maze of most certainly uncertainty and I spoke upward in shouts and waves and heard nothing in return but felt a fish hook in my mouth without warning. red lights flash in between the memories that I remember and the ones that I could not remember though I did not want to in the first place.
ghosts seemed strange to me like root canals and cyanide mixed with hand gestures and profanity. the darkness covers the earth for a time when the prophets start to say what needed to be said in the third world in the new order of the cosmic migration towards the deep caves of the earth a shrinking of visibility and dissonance of the inner crust of molten forgetting. I came with frost bite out of the shadowy shutters and heard the screams of the suicide trees and knew of nothing but the red stripe of paint on the wall and the lamp that was the only thing left standing after the storm and the earthquake mixed with verbal abuse and crystal meth.
pussy and puzzle pieces seemed to go together nicely but no one would look at her in the face aside from me her kin and kind left her standing on the dock next to the goblet that erupted in flames. I could see you in your minds eye and you seemed to lift a finger and the world came down angels falling and giving up on those human kind creatures that take and never give back to anything and not even themselves. what sort of love is this that bleeds the already bleeding and sucks us dry of essence and perfume and sex and liquid energy as the rain tears at the trees flesh until I wake up from its shrill pitch. slow down and move to a beat in the head of the machine was this the best way to go…him and
hmmm and I don’t know the way out of this tunnel. give me grace and serenity to stop short and wrestle the angel again and again and again tumbling to my feet I land back on the earth covered in candle wax and feathers. dusk of the ages was wrapped up around me and light came through the bedroom window. the widow cries and dies in her own space and time stands on its back twisted and forgotten by the clock on the wall and the piano can play itself for all you care. ice streams down the walls of the bathroom and I shiver and I like that feeling of cold to skin and the pain that comes with knowing things that others can not see.
the man in the bathtub was looking at me as if to say huh, I did not just imagine you here and thus you must be here in another way than the way that I am here. and I reply aren’t you dreaming me awake in a reverie when you fell asleep in the bath and floated to the surface of the sky and back. watching the moon uncover its secrets was a graceful and violent repression of feminine beings and light and liberty and the means for commercial enterprise and capitalism was a fucked up thing. right the sky says to the sitting duck that was the man leaving his nine to five and wanting to jump in the lake and swim with the moss and fishes. animals seemed to scare easy and talk back and I was glad to know that someone was listening in moans and sentences and mind
fucks and sex in the bathtub by one’s self and the self excuses us from the divinity that she understands to be inside her. I was always thirsty and could never get my fill and I drank and drank and needed other and to be othered and it was never enough to just fall into the mirror to get sick and cough and spit up the liquids of life and decision and then go home and lie and lie down and sleep as if sleep was not awake and able to be the monsters that we really are when the sun goes down. listeners were symbols of mythology Horus and his fathers scoffed at hegemony and social control did not exist to them then in the era of the butterfly and bread and butter. triangles pop up in daydreams and people always want to know what I am thinking and writing expressing in waves of oceanic refugee. pull me out of the water and I just yearn for the sky that
drips and soaks us to show me that wet is better than dry. horoscopes were mystics way of communicating mathematics and I just felt there was more to people than cells and brains and waves of lifeless energy that helps us paint and create and deepen into the dragon. my mind works in mazes of chess boards and sex dreams whores on the street and stilettos getting stuck in the cracks of the pavement outside my house. and breath and breathing and needing to breathe and wanting someone else’s breath seemed a giant waste of time. and cancer is sweeping the earth of us and the demon under your brain in the space between your spine giggles and knows that the battle is already lost in the young david as he steps up to see the golith in front of him. but he does bash his brains in , david to his golith, the famous story of mind and spirit over matter but
death still comes knocking on the door whistling that tune you can never remember the name of. cats hiss and spit like adults do in church and it would seem to me that listening to the pitch of the organ was more important than the organ itself playing some damn tune we have heard forty times to different words over and over and over in a way chocking me out of my vitality and importance of art. muses came in different colors you know in the spaces between serenity and sleep. insomniacs must have it rough like a face scrubbed on the pavement when you sit in your chair and listen to dirty tunes about the stone age and posters being held up on walls with glue.
lust and angels and kundalini became a jumbled mess inside my head and no one wanted to dive in there and sort it out, not even me. the carpet scratched its head and gave up on telling us the way up the mountain was the dig under it and insight a volcano of activity and mist and heroines coming to the rescue of princes in distress in the tower with their hair long and their skirts down around their ankles. what?
does gender stress you out like pathological liars and re-gifting gifts that your cousin gave you when he was six and you were twenty and it seemed a damn shame to shame the hunted. did we not have enough trouble as it is with the water up to here and the breath staggered and did you know that you are not alone? the sunset will forgive your faults and give you new lifestyles to explore and try on like a new pair of shoes that you steal from your favorite store in the mall. I came up and saw around and shook my head, wagging like a dog on its deathbed and
I found light in a new day and darkness in a new night and that was just fine with me. and the truth is alright with me. this is for no offense and I just like to spit out profane and spiritual and one and the same and different and equal and separate like two trains running in the opposite directions.

Please research Helene Cixous (especially her piece titled Laugh of the Medusa) She is an amazing writer, philosopher, mystic, and feminist activist.