The Breathing Habits of Dragons

Insides electric,

I was wild within and

without your permission,

dragon head leaping

forth from my ravenous mouth

like smoke does

when it’s lusting onward,

passion heaving and breathing,

sizzling through

my aching

dancing

magic,

deep throughout me

until I’m drenched in

senses and sexual embers

that ooze and surge inward,

then seep and etch outward

onto your sultry skin,

bold bodies intoxicate,

intertwine in raunchy reveries,

intersect

into the streams,

turning to erotic rivers,

deep under the oceans,

swiftly upwards to the stars that cross the

universe spaces and expand

like hallelujahs,

exaltations to the ethers

of grand sex sounds,

rhetorical orgasms,

drunken stupors,

neurotic heretic angels rejoicing,

mistletoe bastards

waving insults and fake promises,

caffeine headaches

adding to my already throbbing,

pounding thrusting fornicating intuition

that leaves me silent,

mouth shut quiet in the daytime,

just my raven eyes staring into your head,

the sweet surrendering alchemy of your chemistry,

that subtle voodoo tells me in whispers,

haunts my hallowed dreams with screaming,

much more than I ever wanted to know,

and so forth……

Thus I gave in,

time and bruised

soul time again,

with a whimper

to the west

and time travel

taken into

account what with the

tempest traffic sirens and patterns

and the kinky freakshow weather,

handcuffed still to the headboard.

I laughed up

hurricanes,

rafters shaking,

quaking in

sensual serenity,

making love to

the moment,

moaning low,

sighs quicken

the beating heart

and I reclaim my

name and nature

in the eye of the storm.

Shaken

Click, click, clacking,

radios spinning

in wonderment

at vowels

spat out

by my tongue alone,

in the night

as I dream

awake.

Orgasming out

sex dolls,

juicing flames,

forked fucks,

confused laughs,

harmonic whispers,

erect philosophies,

sensual shamans,

pagans named

in different

masks

keeping

abstract

whirlwind time,

boots set ever so delicately,

on the floor,

after banging and blitzed,

pressed backs

against cupboards,

titillating the glassware,

scratch marks

down the lily and violet

wallpaper

to the left of the bay window,

honeydew holiday

breakfast nook,

we moaned together,

though then I flashed to my

inner mockingbird harlequin,

stained with

crumbling castles,

cruel alchemy

performed on top of me,

tortured apothecaries

enacted,

poisoned elixirs tested

out on my breath,

my sex,

my bones broken,

and blood

bled dry,

round and round

we go,

with the wrath and miracles,

merry go weary,

and I wondered

if even the ceiling fan

would bother to care,

would remember my name,

when I go

quietly and quickly

from here

with a shudder

and a lick of my Cheshire lips,

a mad hatter shake of my hips.

Goodbye alice,

oh how I miss you

in the mists and the sun. 

Sex and the Alchemist

Oh please now,

let me come on in,

down inside your eyelids,

sinking low

and subtle slow,

to the thrusting space

between your hips,

my head and

legs

split open

by the alchemists light,

found in the deep,

inside the fury earth,

yet also within my molten womb,

resurrecting musing moans,

I melted back

into your beating chest,

and we rocked and hurricaned

so easy whilst together,

slowly in and out and inside me,

your hands bled freely

from my thorny skin,

I sucked the blood up

through the rafters,

left you pinned against the wall

with gasps of pleasure,

then we stray,

your hands to my

shoulders,

down my arms,

sending a shiver up and down me,

soaking bedsheets,

sex screams

and tree whispers

fissured through

my dreams

leaving me

weary walking

absent-minded talking,

lushly lurking

in the daylight,

rounding corners,

unexpected hallways,

into your periphery.

I stared you down

naked

in the mirror,

with such heavy

syrup sighs,

drink and fill up

your mouth

with my

rhythms,

keep sacred

the moon,

her lover

the sandstorm,

her worshipers,

the rivers

that slurred

their sanities

ever onward

to the ocean. 

Spice

The weather was lonely

along with the Jack of hearts,

who landed in my periphery

and of course with the

stolen Queen’s tarts and affections,

funny- oh irony,

stargazers stuck with

grey skied nights and

demon eyes,

silly dragon tongued boy,

breathing fire and

sex scented bedrooms

lit up the dark,

laughing and fucking and bending,

in and out of breath.

You and I

came together in

strange times of the Spider and

the cypher prophets,

floated along in the morning

and becoming ghosts

in the nighttime.

It’s gypsy witching

season friends,

I crave to hear your howls

and stomps on the earth,

changing the world

creating magic and sex and

brilliant sensual gospels.

I want to hear your wildness.

I dare you to be bold.

Affection drenched

in sarcasm,

we can fuck to the

rhythms of those sultry saints,

rock back and forth,

side to side,

in and out,

pulsing cum and revolution,

art designed

in thunderstorms and catacombs,

I’ll kiss you
soft and rough,

moaning out my religion

on your skin and bones.

Let me in,

I’ll undress your energy,

melt your breath into mine,

haunt and whisper,

taunt and tease,

dripping lace and lust,

spices and sensations linger,

as I dive into you,

and we are overcome.  

Alchemy reigns the nightfall.

Sequestering werewolves by classic conditioning, the government gives us pause to reconsider if monsters are not all around us. Keep quiet for a moment, and watch the teething process begin, steps taken to tranquilize the beasts of the dawn and damned. 

The spiral descended on the western plains of America and the Tea Party was co-opted by big hats and large checks to the NRA and Big Brother, same difference if you keep your eyes stapled shut and listen harder than your predecessors. Our villages burn and you seem to worry mostly about the taglines in the cosmopolitan black box that’s left on the lower shelf of the only bookcase in the pentagon. 

Fashion, if done well, declares war on the elite. Where the hell are our differences that make us beautiful? Feathers fly without owners in the night with my dress sliding off my shoulders and no one even seemed to notice the birds dying with oil in between their fingers. The air frisky with its own divergence from the mediums that sat and spat out hypo-necessary intelligence for the apes in the corners of a particular special performance with its VIP encore by someone famous (all other information is classified at this dying hour).

A lounge to the left and down the stairs, I sit and feel as if I am in the wrong time, the naked body bearing witness to the future, the corporate entertainment bleeds the lamb dry again, the scarred sacrifices of teenagers all over the globe in their track suits and stockings. We write to be heard and reckoned with.

Throats deep in the marshes of “Babalon”, Crowley and his witches seem to resound in the thoughts of men of magic and circumstance, plaster and fortune tellers sitting under the earth, waiting for these previous moments to pass and for the risen serpents to take their heads to the throne, splitting bodies (as they do) to sound the alarm of a new wakening. Give in to the sound of light.

Commune with flesh, bones growing and tumultuous changes to come in the generations of poison, drink and be changed. Take the channel and live through it, surround the women around you with light breath and own your own memories, if you can know them in the sense of bible therapy and red herrings.

I beg you to silence. Just sit for a moment with the vampires of old ages, sages of a dark sort to be sure but with power and presence of being above the callings of car parts and vehicular homicide. In your mind, I lie awake.

Blaze to feel sincere about comments on love and some kind of peace in the world, shots of whiskey to save your personality and all this froth ascends you to turn into entities floating above your actual bed frame. Astral traveling, leaving your veins to fend for themselves, you score heights and forensics and cells of bastard renaissance men. The best in the business, I can assure you. 

Dollar signs can be heard from miles in the distance regardless of a strong sense of smell and an appetite for fear and endangerment. Even still, drag me to the king and I will not look him in the eye, tears to fall as he explains the fate of women and our contested embodiment.

Empower these stone angels, anarchist dictionaries to read alone, steam to cover up your debts, foggy weather to desert storm, as we surrender to a mass collective- No more. We shall stagger to the ground and lift up our spirits to an unknown and monolith source, back to the feeding trough to start again from ashes and acid rainfall. In the jungle, no one has a name.

Today however, the place is of your calling power into a being of nature, a radical pathway from base to mountain, a train leaves the station at half past five without its conductor or any destination. Spark out loud and feel the need to move, to stir around with other pentagrams and postulates. We dine together in the seeds of hell, and tonight we drink the blood of earth, liquor for the gods and animals that transform us. Alchemy reigns the nightfall. 
- Megan