Embody the Drenching Electric

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow into the show of the chaotic collective a reality-eating monster. Madness lighting our way through this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and force the rain to seep through us, making us whole again and standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the fantastic riddlers of our day succumb to their ego and beauty sleep. Instead, embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 

Somebody, Move.

Slave girl trade
kept me up last night,
the world is weeping,
and I listen best at nighttime,
when the shadows wander, and
the mirror haunts
with staggering,
breathless,
appeal.
I can't stop looking deep,
yearning for even deeper down the rabbit hole,
hard and wet and deep,
but what if I don't want to stop?

The Salem witches are awake
and on the move,
still sizzling from
their wounds,
they start to come alive,
burn again in the moonlight,
as you start to moan again in your sleep,
beautiful sounds of unconscious pleasure
awake within you.

Though we start
to notice the mass hysteria,
the twisted tea parties
that are starting to piss off the Mad Hatter,
the smell of pure upheaval
and revolt was
starting to course through again,
these tired old veins,
still always hear the calling.

Make no mistake,
this is a new level of inferno,
I'm watching the
fallen angels in my head
turn into machine drunk zombie dolls,
sadness turns to
self-loathing and despair,
stop this dark force at work
in the dungeons of our deficit,
and the puppet masters for
the Principal are laughing ever still.

Addicted to sex
and the rush of pleasure,
I hunger for spirits
not afraid to fuck deep waters,
expand our horizons,
we can travel and change,
become misfit gypsies
in quite the traveling
Freakshow,
masturbatory habits disclosed
and prescription pills
letting the mind wander
and weave,
out into oncoming traffic.

I will let you overcome me
just because it felt good
to be wanted a little,
I guess.
Vampires twisting in nightmares,
cancer hot flashes in the corners
of bathroom stalls,
heavy sighs and so on,
the sickle comes down
again on our prophets of the twilight hours.
We stand by and watch
the rite
played out over our bodies,
and say nothing.
enough noise.
Somebody, move.

Play.

Where's my fucking pen?
Struck by a hurricane tornado,
blood from the sky,
misfits become
Dante's suicide trees,
white cedar,
sharp blade to the skin
as the leaves fall in autumn
and the bark rips away
from the trunk
screaming,
begging for mercy.

I weep for you
rebel rolling drug dealers
with the mist in your eyes
that tries to hide your self-loathing
due to abuse over the years,
the Father hits her over and over,
you watch,
and it breaks your soul into pieces.
I hear those hounds
haunting you in the darkness.

It festers me so
to see the sorrow
drift in and out
of your eyes,
like sipping hot coffee,
it burns all the way down
your spine.
We can make each other better,
angels falling,
seraphim luring me
to the cross,
we land on the rocks,
and the lighthouse
dims with a wink and simple
twist of euphoria.

The torture of our women
in better homes and gardens,
we stay silent,
until all the light
is drained from their soft sad bodies,
sick humiliation
of half our generation.
Though in suddenly waking,
you realize that if one aches,
we all drip blood,
just a little even.

Connection is the door
to freedom and sexual divinity,
but,
you already know that,
deep down.

Sad Eyes

Sad eyes one evening
lead to nine sleeping pills
which she took throughout the night,
each taking her to a new layer of Dante's hell.
Her favorite setting
was to run amongst the suicide trees,
blood drips from the young birch
and the re-birth
of the hierarchy of sins
is etched into the stone
of the collective conscious,
the vultures circle,
the martyr hangs.

Mad dogs reign,
the earth implodes under the pressure
of the storm a-coming
in the corners of the world in which
there is only darkess,
perpetual twilight.
Let them suffer,
the magistrate pronounces
over the loud speaker
and goes back to his
flask of bourbon
which he tells his wife
is just water and lemon juice.

Everyone is lying to you.
Wave your flag,
drink your poison,
thrust the knife in deeper inside of me,
twist it around
and make me wait.
I smirk and let you
take my life,
smile the Cheshire grin.

Give me energy
that sticks in my throat,
violence seen through
the needle's eye.
I will only ask you once.
Are you there?

Move

Tortured villages,
watch them burn.
The body bags line the streets
in my dreams,
turning into nightmares.
Keep it secret,
most of the time.

The drums keep beating.
We grind to the rythmn
out of instinct
and animal desire to survive.
In the winter,
we dine with the angels,
drinking gin out of the bottle,
free of puppet strings,
we recount the endless streams
of conscious collective visions.

We walk circles,
priesthood and circus training,
we are here to entertain
and provoke you to move.

Dark clouds forever plague me.
The darkness thickens,
the sickness takes without delay,
forget it all,
and it just haunts us more.
Skin grows cold and the hunting begins.
I'm drowning in heavy,
sinking low in the harmony,
dancing and coughing up blood.
What is happening to me?

A tornado almost ripped my heart
out of my body.
I miss my dad enough...
can't finish.
What else was there to say?
I suppose that my jaw clenches,
I feel the tears fall indeed
down my cheeks again.
Opened the floods in me, it did.

I will make sure that the puzzle piece
of me you hold in your hand
will disappear as soon as you
pick up another dirty sliver off the pavement.

Forever melting,
I take the fire
back into my mouth,
breathing heavy,
tantric eyes.
Lift me up,
forgive me and move.

The chessboard speaks

In the cosmos, we intertwined, twin flames melt together. Our Egyptian brethren thrust us into the future, the ancestors fading back into the mists of heaven though we shout for them to stay.

The chessboard full of fast moves and equality issues breathes a sigh of relief, our soaked psyches gleam in the moonlight to explore and be driven on to create, to delve beyond the pale-faced corpses that sit in the graveyards over on east 11th.

The lightning inside me strikes hard and I shake, threatening to split full through into both feminine and masculine selves. I hunger for more when the creative collective begins to howl in my ear.

The monster ate my whole sacrificed framework and then I swallowed the red pill, went down with a cough. Haunted by the wails of angels, waltzing weapons of sanity. The doors to the masquerade begin to close slowly and now I must find a way to live with what I've seen.

Heartbeat Earth

Living inside the heartbeat of the earth, I hunt for the requiem spaces of silence that hide me from those snarling dogs ever howling at the sultry sirens of the nighttime. Falling fellows, we land altogether abruptly in the sinkholes of the economy. We are stripped of our hypnotic collectables, our sacred encounters with the third eye of the sun.

Give the moon her last breath as she turns down the horizon and sleeps through the day, a curled smile flit across her face. Death slumps around on all fours and seems to drink black coffee and smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, his rusty voice fumbles over the lines of prophecy written with burning coals in the sand.

An artist in the shackles of the machine, I wonder if the apathy can change me into a walking number. Speak loud and strong before the house of card crumbles down on you too, the face of a myth staring back at you and laughing.

Yet thrust on we must, hold the lamplights higher and raise a glass to those we’ve lost through the war of articulation. Ignite the furnace within me once more. Lift up the voices of the collective electric body and soon our wet lips can drink in the creative again.

Dance out the Droid

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow to the prophetic visions of the chaotic collective astral plane, a reality-eating glorious monster. Madness lighting our way through this lower hell plane we are forced to walk, this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and plead that the rain will seep through us, making us whole again and then standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the suffering magicians of our day. Embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 

The Religion of Robotics

Headaches anonymous meetings continue regardless of the temper tantrum weather that crashes down on our heads the size of pinwheels. I have grown silent as of late due to the need to communicate through micro-expressions and folly furniture. Was there a grief that can be risen above: destroyed by some grandiose leisure or flammable log cabins in the woods when you were nine and killed your first rabbit for dinner and you cried once the deed was done and the limp flesh sizzled while roasting on the spit. Guilt seethes to conquer our virtues that we count on our fingers, one at a time, to make sure it was worth it to wake up this warn down body in the middle of the afternoon.

I was so angry at the world for delving me deep and cutting me short with scissors that I shrunk to the size of a virus and left the earth for a time to contemplate the angels falling and the vast canyons under the ocean. The brilliance of the moonlight glistens the water awake and as she sets, her mouth gently kisses the everglades’ edges until tomorrow. We all mood swing to the beat of a capitalist psychoanalysis drum- as it is in constant thumping out of what we are to want to buy, need to buy, must have to survive: cosmetics and feelings of cool and that the world is driving itself insane.

We arrive with the weather to the tollbooth of insincerity and found that all of us had our lies to keep, our secrets to furrow deep in the base of the brain, the diseases we have yet to catch and craft the spells of the witch hunters that betrayed their own kin to the policed thought taverns and tourniquets. Mass graves drift in and out of sleep and screaming redemption to a god that seems to be busy unlearning the mechanics of our human-machine sex appeal as we transition to the religion of robotics.

Counting the human to ghost cross-overs as I toss and toss again, waiting to notice the blood dripping from your eyes and the spider in your skull. The artists cater to no man and then unknown they escape the pilgrimage to the intersection of sell-out and sanctuary. To not create would be a sin huge enough for my desperate need for confession.

I raced the hare and found him sleazy and confrontational. And I awoke from my dream to go to the unmarked grave tribunal. The war crimes, dirty rhymes, pick-up lines and scarlet women dance just out of eyesight once the night takes us back in time to see our history unfold like a snake sheds its skin. I am plagued by the bloodthirsty; the medicine man shuffles into town and could save the world though the masses see a revolution as a waste of time and money. But what is still left unknown is that if we are the souls of intervention, when can our chorus begin?

I chose the graveyard shift

            The persistence of the muse inspires me, my friends and partially counterparts, to write you from some distant hole in a prison cell wall where I eat my last meal. The cold wind runs through my veins as I struggle to stay awake another hour. Level with the lover affairs and the sainted hares that travel you downward to the urges of the crowds.

I can linger only for a moment to watch the guillotine carry you away, a witch burning on a stake too I could imagine. So many lost and forgotten, the blade cuts the skin and I repeat her sad eyes in the mirror. Fortnights from now, the seas higher and luminescent, the trees baying out their mourning songs as we roll and toss through the thickness of the liquid air.

Float on, in embrace with me then for a moment and creep the night away with a touch and song to sway to. Enter through the night inside me and we share the secrets of the dark in unison. We crave then the shaman beats of trance and rhythm inter-wired through your bloodstream, I weave in and out. I can sleep another day. Let tonight be a touch of ember.

Inferno baby, we awake the medieval magic that bellows beneath the surface of the earth and just under your skin. Warm throat pulsing, we dance the trauma out: killings in the street, drop dead ultrasounds. We beat out the floor with our feet: bruising raped women cry out, battered children, overdoses on drugs of the wizard on that yellow brick road. I push key to black key to convince myself that there is a reason to write and to shake and break open. Up and out we go and down into another rabbit hole. Find a way to find the blue in the sky when you wake up in the morning worth all of the bones in the collective closet. I chose the graveyard shift. 

Masked Ball beyond the mirror: the mad house performed

The mad house performed for tonight is an insanity masked ball with full plumage and feathers falling slowly from the rafters: dead doves screech aching to the chessboard floor though, through the deep transistor dancing, no one notices. We are all glimmer and gold, reckoning to each other in a waltz made for magic lanterns and forest forgetting. The masses dance to the tune of the puppet king sitting on the throne at the forefront of the room: masked suffocated doll in its own dollhouse that we wreck back to every night for we didn’t seem to have another option.

I know there is always a choice if you are aware of the spoon fed to your lips and you stand and walk out of the front door into the dark-if you can run faster than a whisper. Though we retch of vanity, our costs for devotion seems lower on the totem pole in the middle of the room than seemed worthy of our talents.

Etchings of unborn languages and tribes of mystics that have fell to co-option and death to the heretic: we burn at the stake for the wings of the leviathan are ever growing and wrapping us close to their sides. The Judas Complex came drifting through the ballroom like a cold chill from an open window set to face the stormy sea that brought us here on waves of tribulation and apathy.

The mad hatter stands in shadow and watches these religious rites performed through disease and disguise: nothing is as it seems in the halls of the mountain kings. I never wake fully from the strings and serenades of the amercian dream of pop pulp and fruit shavings left on the kitchen counter and forlorn. Hatter wails the call of the drinking dawn: arise and wake to the fullest extent of your being. We, caged without bars in our “pleasant little dream and fancy” we are told over and over through the deep voices of the fear of a nation. All is false and fair in the ride of the carnal and carnivale.

Spring forth with reckless passion and dissonance, you lionesse of sex magic and complex cognition. Once your mouth open and letting the bats fly out of your tongue and the ecstasy flows unfulfilled through your mainstream- there is no turning back for the wondering innately insane.

I relish at the art of manliness and mayhem and murdering epitaphs that resort us to one function of the Capital and heads of state. The heavens are burning and I can feel the ash on my skin as I watch the passion stifled and the masses end up sucking on a rat’s tail thinking it was sugar cane. When will we learn, my company of counterfeits, that pain of one is pain of all.

My antics and rhetorical statements seemed unaltered by the alters set up around this room of clowns
staring. I twitch to the idea of control of the monster inside me- tamed and tortured defeat, I may rest for a moment though my eyes sink in deeper unto themselves with every staggered breath. Words fall and fail to complete me, to explain the bloody horse chains that keep our heads down to the floor, our 
forseen purpose to step one sole ahead of another and leeching our souls out to the stock market. We thus so distracted by pain that we forget to look behind us and witness the man holding our reigns, teething on our energies. Nuance and nausea woke me with a gasp and shutter. Revolt. Spit fire. Regain consciousness and awaken. 

Untold horrors of the Knights Templar

The eyes awoke and saw the pyre fumes raise the city up around them. Clash the metaphysics of what you believe with the amens of your ancestors as I swiftly react (with a rise of my mind off the pavement) to the pitchfork masses that swarm through the marshes on the seventh day and rape the women so as to bring rains down on the crop fields in their hometown of nowhere. Whatever the prize for redemption, there is no hole deep enough, no trench long enough, no riverbed wide enough to save the monkeys from their mayhem.

I watched from the star-crossed moors of the main land where most of the battles took place in the medieval ages of the Viking warriors and wisdom trees that speak in tongues that no man alive can understand or so they say with their lips crossed and their fits pumping to curse the all night vigils of prayer and foster children. The violence reigns down on the plantations and cremations of innocents, born to a world that spat them back out and walked among them as if god itself gave one people permission to harness another.

The voodoo kings sit in their temples and reach for their cauldrons with cattails surrounding the base of their skills and perceived knowledge from the crows that used to mourn the living and the dead. Vampire calls were surrounded in the twilight by mists and wakings of the undead mannequins with their legs in a tangle of one another and a gift from the Magus.

I felt comfortable here among the medium talents and frost covered muses of Babylon. On a number of occasions the spirits that are unsettled in their new ethers talk in quiet harshness, fast and repeating, they seem to recite all of their past battle wounds and ship wrecked fantasies unfulfilled. I try to keep one ear open to the living that are descended from princes of the riptide, one ear open to the dead and resurrected, and then my mind is free to wonder upon cobblestone sidewalks in London, prisons of traitors and tyrants to the queen, and untold horrors of the Knights Templar. Each story that is believed to be the truth stuck to my skin like tic tak toe on the hottest day of the summer. I never sleep alone. 

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