Harvest Moon and Lipstick

One miserable miscarriage later,
two spirits
dance in the flames
inside one body,
reflecting light
on an empty stage,
fedora askew I stand in stockings and lipstick.
I miss you,
in the waves
of dark that flow
over and in
and through me.
I see burning painted men
on the metaphysical plane,
angels and women too,
the plague is
spreading.

Singing in my room,
swaying those two spirits again
up to the ceiling.
My mantra repeats:
on my terms
I will be passionate,
and forgive
in abundance.
You are young yet
and will not understand,
sweet monster
of the north-
drink your whiskey,
sip on wine.

Make me believe -
through the lies
and the humanity,
holy crossed staves,
Helen in the mirror,
she pays the rent,
and even has the heart
to sex you
though you don't deserve her.

But we were just friends
at a carnivale,
I caught your eye,
you stuck me on your wall to remember,
and I kinda liked it,
I confess,
and I'll write your heart out,
I don't mind.
Mais, c'est triste pour moi
regarder tout seul.

Hazy Intuition

What can I say

but that the madness is driving me crazy.

I entered the machine,

and then spat her back out,

drinking venom for a living and

a bad habit or two to spare.

The coroner’s report proclaimed

that death was on the rise,

like locusts swarming around

those houses in Egypt

that ended in mother’s cries.

Our last battle,

sitting in my room,

between ashes and the radio,

still has me spinning,

wondering if love even can carry

all of this weight from the astral plane,

plummeting me into despair so deep

I can only see the bottom of my shoes.

The intuitions seemed hazy and forgetful,

though there will soon be

a change in the wind

and our bodies will emerge from the

marshes of New Orleans,

and we will dance together and through

the fire,

not feeling a thing.

Our prophets will come to us

through the mists of minds,
or even better we will become
our own goddamn prophets.

We are coming out of the dark,

high pitched euphoria and
and enlightened mayhem,

the earth raining from the sky,

sandpits overturning
to set their sights on the rain,
and the sphinx starts talking
in the old language,

ravens hissing in the new year.

Phoenix appears in the skies of the west,

there are stirrings under the ground,

armies of angels
that are mistaken for monsters,
form through time

and painful beauty,

eating up the blackholes of
money making war games
that will not stand for too much longer.

But the razor still scrapes against the steel
of death’s sinking boats
springing leaks and gasps for air,

you plunge into ice water and are sung

to sleep by the sirens of the red queen.

Muses hide their many masks

sometimes until drowning.

I caused the queen her crown.

the festival of fools and graphic novels

The festival of fools and graphic novels is just starting as you arrive at our next chapter. We enter in to our mad house with a grin and stilettos, ribbon twist up thighs and linger close to the skirt that she wears when she goes out. Lucifer and his vikings (before the fall) lead the pathway to the holy ghost who is burning himself alive again as he watches this particular circus go through the towns and cities of our beloved past and present again to be the future soon.

The jokers kept the place tidy while you were away and their black coats and white gloves leave us remembering their faces that light up the mirrors on the other side once and awhile. We stare in and through them and don’t know how this trick is done.

The carpet lays out a red assembly line through the curves and passageways of this old slump of a building found on the corner of vanish and wicked. We make ends meet inside of us and collect you for the awakening. These disembodied hands dancing through the air like birds as we look up to the cathedral like foyer.

Rooms of labyrinth mirror lands we walk through and see with awake eyes all of our various characters and the fornicators and the suicide makers and the hanged man swings through the mirrors we are running from unless you can stand there and stay still.

Angels call us to elemental forecasts and we are swept up and carried through the quick sands that waterfall through this room of only keyholes. Where green and purple look like different colors entirely and the entities snicker at the duller of the masses that have an understanding that one gets out alive, one wakes up from this dream.

Once we do wake up from this sensory overload, our voices soften and we huddle together for fear of falling. The tower of this crafty illumination carried us away from angry stock marketers with their hung faces and slips of shots of whiskey for whom those bells toll their deafening secrets of the traitors and traders. I lost my way among the throng and end up falling asleep ever so stealthily in the ivy-covered moors just inside our fun house to wake in the morning and wonder if it was all an encouraged nightmare.

The Cheshire Cat Takes The Stand

Injecting hormones into the variant brain structures that are profiting the already wealthy, I saw the stains, the tunnels of twists and turns- we writhe together in the sand pit that is burning ice cold. Pain can be breathed through in a fashion of wit and irony.

I gave the Cheshire cat his moment to purge, to lengthen, to stretch and gasp: I understand you, brothers and sisters of a coming of tirade miracles. We were warned, I suppose- wanted also,

 I believe by many to harvest powers beyond our own control much less in control if the puppet master is the culture we stand in, waist deep and rising. Awake we find ourselves scarred and scared, one life can only be lived through others, maybe, I don’t know.

I strangle the riptides just like everyone else and indeed can for-see the violent shafts of light, liquid accommodation, haunting images of New Orleans figures- beautiful with passion to ignite the fires of hell itself, keep shining, I pray you. I miss you daily. Bayou is a loved and learned experience, a habit you can’t break honey. Got to get me back there soon to “re-vamp” as I suggest we all should. Oh yes, I think so.

Give us back the night, willing to dig and drive to metal what we lost thus to regain, in time, some of our divinity. Gathering together our tough instruments, distinct talents and forever fleeting backwards into a heron pond, we bite the thirst back to flex the feeble- misfortune had its mark, the hunted can be once again haunting.

Maybe I got on the ark as a virus, morphed and fizzed into this being, from time and time against the certain current, we got free all our windows and mirrors and now descend back onto the earth.

Was it worth it, this humanity, this language of congress, initiates of other religions and demises of all kinds, left stranded with the water rising a bit below your eyelids as you float and wait for some hand, candle, tapestry of wanting to be alive: rise above your awareness.

Alice standing in front of the looking glass again, watch her eyes fade in and out with the clock- hold on to yourself and plunge in again, as you do and we follow ahead.

I listened carefully to the cries- we lament the dead, the dying, and the living. Strange times are these when everyone is afraid to stand still in a moving crowd and look around. Is this what we want? Do we like where we are headed?

Masses blinded by a shiny object in the sky that is unattainable, capitalism spat out like angels- pathologized, cyborged, and aching scream out to a darkened sky. We only live once, or so they tell me. 

Post-Modern Analysis...

Crazy Horse aside,
I gave in once to drink
with those post-modern Evangelicalists.
Angels?
I think not.
Dig down deep
in that hole of insanity,
clowns on strings,
dolls hung from the rafters
of my room,
and yours in the astral world,
I would imagine.

Hypothetically,
Haunted history kept its mouth closed,
nailed shut,
coffin side up we float on.
Mouth taped shut,
pinned balloon on the calendar,
to remember re-death.
Cancel out my eyes
and I will still sing out loud
write to the cryptic cosmos,
and hear her sigh of relief.

Christ came to me in the night,
I shuddered to life,
butterfly shaking off frostbite and silicone.
Fuck the drugs and the aftershave,
the matching ropes with which to hang oneself,
the ticking matchstick figures,
I was not ready to succumb
to the flame again, just yet.
Enough is enough.
Ice Queens take up your arms
or forget about it and go home to fires in the cupboards,
no money and no power,
scuttle back to your Mansions in the east and the west.
Tantrums are for twelve-year-olds.

The dragon in me is sick in cold shutterings,
shaking off the trauma like a violin keeps time.
Hands on the floor,
head down on the tile floor,
breathe through it, the pain never lasts- in my experience.

Resetting the Clock: 2012

shaken free of shape shifting
I come back to this plane for now,
dull in color and shadow.
I want to feel no obligation
to oblige you.
human sacrifice was weakness,
swollen lips set to throat
and pounding.
What? stop staring.
Was I suppose to give you a god damn alias?
Fucking chalk written on your wall?
what can I do but shake
water off my hair in the shower.
I was the cold chill
coming up for air
giving the astral world a new name
resetting the clock
2012.


We are forced into freedom
faux and fickle.
I just ache to want to believe you.
Breath, breath, breath
give up and relax. grit my teeth to hold back.
Cut in two.

My God, My God.
I can’t be who I am in the dance of the kingdom
set in stone
no one survives the reality of the mirror.