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.  

Difference is Pleasure

Death kept us sidetracked for miracles to occur. You can keep waiting for your miracle while the rest of us will start making some changes around here. It’s about damn time for you to get off your ass, get out of your closets and basements, and start shaking the earth baby-

clothes are optional and sarcasm is one of my means of communication. I want those thumping feet in the dark of the night keeping time with the only clock in the room that is in my pocket.

Give me spirit to descend from the mountain and shout to the crowds forthcoming and of the messages foretold. We are forever. Our earth unfolding for each other. Rights are a spiritual command from the chaos of this unforgiving world. I want to mess it up, fuck it hard, matter different, opium haze and cigarette whiz kids ace their finals.

I make my mark, naked and got caught in a ferris wheel, gamble me away and let the erection carry on through the evening, swelling of your feet, coming around from miles around to catch the circus rolling through.

Meet your maker, take your fake i.d. and get into the nearest wanker bar and take a seat next to gentlemen in the grey pinstripe. “I’ve wanted a pair of those shoes you’ve got on for four months now,” you say to the pinup, striped man gawking tenderly in your direction- same man, different story.

“Oh, yeah? he pinstripe speaks gruffly. That is about all there is to say on that account so you and the pinup sit in silence. you order your splash with a nut olive and spritzer in a cone glass with an umbrella straw.

Jesus I just want a cigarette and huff the night away listening to something pounding, several stragglers and jugglers fall in and out of line to pay their alcohol tabs. I sit in the corner booth chugging whiskey since three this afternoon. Rape and pillage me out of here. Sir, can I get a refund? I don’t think it works that way here, vile mausoleum.

Apes on strings, whiskey with wings, carnivale frenzy with my one foot in the door as I look back into the night tunnel that brought me here, signing off and reading a book while sitting in the shower. Steam seething me awake, I breathe and taste the hot rain, blacken the night and forgive me.

I ran into the corner of the your driveway and nocturne emissions trying to escape the day...I owe him a dollar by the way. Nickels and pennies fall from the tree of life when it’s turned upside down and given a good shakin'. Most are in it for the money, I have found.

Panic keep me awake and take me in your shaking hands and then let me go. I pace the chessboard floor every night, and you never show up on time.

Sick stomachs and dying and repentance, freaks in the foyer, lions in their dens teething and waiting for any signal. Luck has nothing to do with it, just ashes once the lions change over and lay down their respective lives. Enough.

Pulpit practice, I do yearn for a safe space but found no one and no where. Land of nowhere and the irony is that I wasn’t sure what I wanted, what I want. Excuse my confusion but the hounds howl too loudly, moats and sea

men floating through the earth’s core on the day that we get out of here, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I don’t care, though I do. I have to because I have a place here in this pulpit, this studio, this book,

this dancefloor, this channel and that spiral out of control. Chaos stares me in the face and I will just learn to laugh in his face: master and slave is no fun in this case.

I swear to God if things don’t change, I will shut my mouth and not speak. I will refuse to settle for manipulations of thoughts and phrases. I will be the heretic- every time.

Such is the odd confusion that I lay in between: a drowning and a tornado. ha ha. Just light up my darkness, you foreign objects and passions I cannot explain. I have more to give than some stanza one time and a famous night that always ends up with lights out.

Horrified, I shout to the sky. Just because I have seen it before does not make it easier, shut the fuck up on that piano note. You are singing flat and bursting out of your corset.

You either got it or you don’t. Baby, it can’t be taught in any school I’ve ever heard of and I won’t teach what I don’t understand myself, not just yet. Give me a moment to think, please.

I see sideways, hear scratching and think it’s a something.... let’s just say, worse for the time being. I can’t write out any more of that thickness for now. Alone and artist is hard.

Together and artist is hard as well, in fact just stop the video camera altogether and notice a pattern repeating itself. We are all the same and yet not altogether anything the same. Difference is pleasure.

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