Elements and Breathing Habits

Oh Muse,

why so harsh and

swiftly away

again

as of late,

taking tea with bloodbath hands

and fake memories

implanted in the

dusty head of

suicide trees,

the winking moon,

poor Dante and his

fall of man,

and Jesus did weep,

in the end,

that was more

a beginning,

when you think about it.

I choked down tears,

talks with the

sandstorms
stirring outside my window frame,

drainpipes fucked up on toxins,

fornication governments
all of which lead
straight for the

dear wild wisdom oceans

that tossed and turned me

into my nightmare reveries
ever to awake my spirit with

gnashing lusty teeth
inside my own head,
following me to 

the star-lighted

sky

who groans for no man,

just fire-breathers

to mix with her

ferocious flames,

purge her icy waters,

be underneath her in the earth.

Fortune telling

came so natural to me,

like the urge

to ride your face,

it was instinct,

not something that

I even,

necessarily,

asked for,

ugh,

I hated my visions

most of the time,

damned me forever

to loneliness, and

spirits were the only

ones who seemed to care

anymore,

on this weary plane

of egos and

alcoholics,

cancer treatments,

and misery,

always seemed to find me,

on that yellow bricked

road

to nasty and

divinity.

And I tried so hard

to howl loud enough

so you could hear my thoughts,

staining the walls of your bedroom,

understand and move

with me,

my wasting away

into death thoughts

and love,

perhaps,

in the light,

that took me,

thank god,

away from here. 

Kundalini Christ and the Vampire Thirst

Shouts and shadows
echo in the deep,
I hear the tremblings
from the far side
of the smoky mushroom.
Christ wanted a tarot reading
and so we sat on the floor and
I drew cards amidst the cacophony
of identities that I coughed through
whilst Hierophant and Change
whisper in tongues with
the Aeon playing Vivaldi on the violin in Venice.
It may have been centuries ago,
but I still remember
that smell of spices
and WitchDoctor masks in the air.

I'll set the metronome,
ever stirring up the rogue supernatural,
and weep for the rising death toll.
You spend your nights resting
on her grave thus to remember
a once brilliant illusionist for the madness,
the surge of artistry that pumps
through our throats,
taste of silicone and sage.

I purge you of that dank festering loneliness,
opening up kundalini magic,
sorcery of it's own time,
centuries of vampire hunters
and blacksmith cannibals
eating out your heartstrings
and laughing in the midst of Noah's flood.

Fine. You win.
I cave in to the creator,
rook moves three spaces forward,
though he may be in some gothic frenzy,
black robes cutting off circulation of blood
and the electric pulse quickens-
I begged you not to,
but you did anyway
and thus welled up within me
a wrath thirst of the vampire variety,
taunting me to give till I am dry,
always not telling you something,
with a faint glisten in my eye.

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.

Astral Teeth

You felt the sigh on the back of your neck.
I pant in rhythm with you,
rock back and forth,
count the tiles on the floor,
49 cracks in history.
I missed you
like my last cigarette,
heaving to feel the smoke come back,
make toxic my lungs again.
I was in breakdown mode,
mood swings like
dragon tails.

I fail to be the follower,
Houdini screaming
in his straight jacket drowning.
I betrayed you to the devil,
tears fall down the back side
of the clock
ticking in the hallway.
There was not enough
closet space for the creature
that hid within,
and the 64 pairs of shoes you bought.

I paint pictures,
vulgar in exhibition
imploding on the inside of the brain.
We chose to channel you,
Christ and his wounds
Stalin and his gun.
Twilight crept into bone-
you shrink away from the darkness.
You were missing
the beauty of the moment.

I gave up on reassembling
your brain.
Too many sunsets on cells,
we see them all,
dying to be the martyr.
I refuse to sin
the way you want me to.
Did you think I was gonna
wave a fucking wand?
Make the pain evaporate,
displace the pain to someone else?
The game is not what you think.
Chess only had so many options.
The moon recalls your struggle
to accept the dying.

But you couldn't help but think,
you are not who we thought you were,
stranger backlit by shadows.
I took the stigmata on
and laughed in your face.
The portals have been opened,
the closets refilled with monsters,
the attics and basements of America
haunted.
I came through the fog
purging T.S. Elliot,
demanding redemption,
a second chance
to live as someone else.
Crucify your own damn soul
for I will not comply again
as when I walked the streets of London,
vampire to few
that felt my rage
rush the streets,
my teeth
taking your quaking soul
to the astral plane.