Ecstasy and Ocean

Sirens,

the blues and bass,

cigarettes,

espresso shots,

drinking tequila

in the shower,

in the morning,

were all telltale

signs of the apocalypse,

that enjoyed teasing us,

with the weather

and paranoia.

Skulls dancing

on skulls,

the poisoned bite

festers until

I suck it out,

skin and burning,

pleasured open mouths,

holy sacraments,

yummy fucks,

witches and their cocktails,

long showers

with the water so hot

it melted the pain

right away,

with the tears,

and the tortured angels,

their wings,

clipped short and scattered

to the four corners

of the grounded earth,

to avoid their own

awakenings into

lovely sculptures

of vast divinity,

that wrapped its legs

around me,

sunk in deep,

to the notion of motion,

rising up and out

of the quagmire,

labyrinthed illuminati

thunderings

from the cement

above us,

that had almost been forgotten,

except for it shook

the rafters

of even the stock marketeers

and the banks

of the green piglets

and the running bulls of

violence

begetting

violence,

aggression spat out

at each other

like acid rain.

Enough of those

hollow egos

teething golden udders

that collapsed the

world around them,

pandemics and

mayhem,

injections and

rabid inscriptions

on brains,

that drove us all mad

and fucking yes,

into that brilliant

ecstasy of the ocean. 

I Am Unknown

The sorrow,
ever swimming,
takes me down to the corner,
digs me a hole
to drown in.
The cancer's ever-taking
what it wants,
doesn't worry about
the soul within that's
ready to shine at any instant.

And those lovely wrathful
Wall Street Prophets,
their voices,
our voices,
finally being stamped on the ground
in protest,
being heard.

Though it still seems
violence and inhumanity reign
in the places of power,
the money jar
being the cookie jar
for the Select Few
and the human rights violations
in the streets of our downtown cities
and in the prisons nearby
are small prices to pay
for a corporate fucking agenda?
May no crooked corporate monster
debase our art and infinite creative power
again. Amen.

There's such risk
in gypsy training,
queering and healing,
must keep looking to the light,
even though the dark is thrust
upon us,
so heavy.
Giving and sometimes
not even getting the
teacups and saucers back at parties
you throw.
take and taken.

My God,
have we all become
such sinister danger animals?
The shadow grew into a cold
monster overnight,
as I lay,
staring into ethers.

Wonderland repeats herself:
I take blame only for the madness
of the Hatter,
the rest is syrup,
darkness and orgasms.
The vampires whisper
in my ear again,
I follow them down
that ugly dank hole
in the concrete,
Daniel and his lions,
me and my serpents,
wanting to shine on you,
one last time,
before I leave here.

I want a kinder tortured soul,
no more brutal battery
to my characters,
now and then,
as of late,
and even back when I remember
times being better.
My intuition doomed me
because damn it,
I knew better with
moon slowly crashing to earth
and my eyes growing sad
with your half-lies.
Just wanted a bit of fun really
with insane gestures,
new sex positions,
and obscure references
to propaganda and the media
mouth hungry machine,
eating away at our senses,
teething on our bones.

Didn't you know?
We are made through
fire and ice,
a wicked angel's alchemy.

The desert night
is calling us back,
to the ground,
the slurring rain
drenching my skin,
covering my wounds,
making me feel holy,
just for one magic moment,
breathing in,
letting it out,
a road towards
final freedom.
Follow me?

Dancing with the devil on a g string: Channeling

It was a difficult tempest, forging through the marketplace on a Saturday afternoon. I witnessed the media perceptions of wealth and harems enough as I melted chocolate with a hot spoon (setting fire to metal with my burning hands), stirring and watching the medical history of cancer erupt on the front page of the press, newsstands and reverends pleading with the nations for opposite virtues- more or less a balance in the tide of fashion and flavor for a higher power.

Immortally inclined, he counts his change and wonders if he can splurge on a cup of coffee. Times are hard even for the nectar queens with their high top sneakers, restaurant gods and witnesses of first-degree murder- all hyperbole and stark raving electrolytes have a wish to yell out their grievances towards a harbor state that couldn’t see the sun save for looking down at the pavement to check and make sure his shadow is still there.

Luckily I kept extra creep shadows in a skull and crossbones bag that I bought for seven dollars at I shop I know down in the crop circle district, next to the pyramid building of the Illumanati that stands in the dirt from which I grew. The mythos of the underworld was cathartic: all dimensions seemed faint, and the nerves underneath this soft skin are undressed to show the perceptions that I dance from one drizzle day to another.

 Swept over the bridge of a fortnight ago, I carry the stream down with me to our resting place- a dam set to the tune of the Moulin Rouge with all her outfits set out on the bed in her dressing room, lipstick and stockings already adorned she dances in front of the mirror while no one watches but her window and the fan that easily ruffles her undergarments.

Seizures and architecture angels gather in the wings on the theatre, each rehearsing in their final minutes before performance: those vicious steps that aggravate the senses of all in the audience, caution tape to be set down later- we receive note from the piano player that beginnings are around us and through us, five minutes till curtain up. The show being ready for us to take it off its training wheels, out of her braces and backpacks of Lisa Frank, and this middle school fever and fraternity that was found so many times in the empty aisles of this mechanical theatre during tech week. 

She grows quickly and now the entrances and exits of this veiled subtle playing ground open up to us as if paranoia was expected, prophecy was indignant and said whatever the hell it needed to, dance was deviant, and this was a blood-soaked exorcism to be sure. Two minutes till curtain, six cups of coffee, at least a pack of cigarettes before the performance is done and the sentiments of the puppets’ strings are draining through the spaces in the heads of this clapping recession.

Dance was a rising of the serpent spirit, a channel of literal embodiment of music and persona in front of an audience. I take the time to form an existential philosophy around these movements of vengeful anarchy. Shake the tyranny out of your bone marrow, once and for all (until tomorrow). I sat in my white wooden chair that my mom and I painted when I was a kid, and I wait for these masters of disillusion, these fortresses of purgatory to share their rhymes with me and together, music and feet stomping out the silence.

I swoop and shift, bird fingers and feathers melting away off my shoulders. I will change for you and in front of you, every artist giving and taming their respective closets. Shall I strive to meld these steps of efficacy and tolerance? I like to listen to all kinds of music as I choreograph. Pacing to the beats that change with the tick of the clock, die on the dance floor and lift up from the water that surprises us, drowns us, and wakes us up once again in the morning.

I was instructed by my body, shaking tumult and a sexual pleasure that can be heard for miles. Requiems and inscriptions on the body, I formed movements blind and to myself make the music and the cause behind clear, efforts and catastrophes bind us to the physical world where even the most dedicated of angels dare not trespass into this abyss madness and scrutiny. 

Legs wrapped around chairs and bible thumping hands take me to new avenues of expression and my thoughts on the economy, the music industry, and the persistent drumming that throbs my body’s arousal to speak through the storm, to dance through the tumult, to look you in the eye and swear that I will entertain you.

I sit and see flashes, visions of our music artists and their yearnings. I carry out their theatricals and voice chords channeled through my shoulders and arms, spreading through my torso and down through my thighs to my bare feet. Ecstasy in furrowed moments, space slows down and gets a ticket to see this audience applaud a haunted divergence from the mundane psychoses that wait to take us back home after our evening dancing with the devil on a g string.
- Megan

This Chesire Cat is being Silent

Give me a left hand to write with and I will write,
always and forever,
as long as I can.
Till the dungeons sink me,
or rise above me.
To the heavens with you,
I will remain and fight,
here,
to stamp out the darkness against the light,
the brethren together come,
totem and testimony,
I call you forth to unite,
gender perspectives all among you,
live as you are,
you prophets and beasts alike.

I can see the pentagon from here,
this astral view of Washington and London.
An interesting view from here,
so much to tell,
not time yet though.
Until our ladies and gentle gents
can smile in the sunshine,
This Cheshire Cat is being silent.
I hear that the Knights Templar
are business men now, hmmmm...
interesting choice of occupation.

This patriarchy castle is plastic beauty,
but I think it is time to burn it down.
There was no one inside of this floppy building,
you are doing no harm
to shake and shatter,
tear down these systems of oppression.

I take the pen to my fist and wrench
it out
of you,
of me,
of whomever is around,
I hope the weight then feels less,
on our tired shoulders.

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

Stream of Consciousness- Fishhooks and Frostbite

This stream of consciousness was written by Megan K. Coleman. This was inspired by Helene Cixous’s call to write.

I was post-lingual and pre- historic. Tainted by the underdog and seraphim I gave in to the way and the light and the message of community and communal. I wanted to forget the slain horses the inside of the women’s bodies burning and the cascade of the river as it drifts the sun into a new beginning. We all know that something is coming a serpent phoenix tiger eyed pig with satan eyes and drinking out of a bottle of dirty vermouth. It concerned me that I felt “my people” are dying quickly and without explanation.
Dissociative paradimes of condensation I want I desire I need something new that does not stick me in some hole that I did not dig for myself. coffins are for the dead and not for the undead you fucking idiot the jester, the fool the magus grins and smirks to the left of his face and the right side of the road. you cornered us in the parenthetical and sang about human trafficking like it was eating cake and drinking tea with the queens of England. It was a maze of most certainly uncertainty and I spoke upward in shouts and waves and heard nothing in return but felt a fish hook in my mouth without warning. red lights flash in between the memories that I remember and the ones that I could not remember though I did not want to in the first place.
ghosts seemed strange to me like root canals and cyanide mixed with hand gestures and profanity. the darkness covers the earth for a time when the prophets start to say what needed to be said in the third world in the new order of the cosmic migration towards the deep caves of the earth a shrinking of visibility and dissonance of the inner crust of molten forgetting. I came with frost bite out of the shadowy shutters and heard the screams of the suicide trees and knew of nothing but the red stripe of paint on the wall and the lamp that was the only thing left standing after the storm and the earthquake mixed with verbal abuse and crystal meth.
pussy and puzzle pieces seemed to go together nicely but no one would look at her in the face aside from me her kin and kind left her standing on the dock next to the goblet that erupted in flames. I could see you in your minds eye and you seemed to lift a finger and the world came down angels falling and giving up on those human kind creatures that take and never give back to anything and not even themselves. what sort of love is this that bleeds the already bleeding and sucks us dry of essence and perfume and sex and liquid energy as the rain tears at the trees flesh until I wake up from its shrill pitch. slow down and move to a beat in the head of the machine was this the best way to go…him and
hmmm and I don’t know the way out of this tunnel. give me grace and serenity to stop short and wrestle the angel again and again and again tumbling to my feet I land back on the earth covered in candle wax and feathers. dusk of the ages was wrapped up around me and light came through the bedroom window. the widow cries and dies in her own space and time stands on its back twisted and forgotten by the clock on the wall and the piano can play itself for all you care. ice streams down the walls of the bathroom and I shiver and I like that feeling of cold to skin and the pain that comes with knowing things that others can not see.
the man in the bathtub was looking at me as if to say huh, I did not just imagine you here and thus you must be here in another way than the way that I am here. and I reply aren’t you dreaming me awake in a reverie when you fell asleep in the bath and floated to the surface of the sky and back. watching the moon uncover its secrets was a graceful and violent repression of feminine beings and light and liberty and the means for commercial enterprise and capitalism was a fucked up thing. right the sky says to the sitting duck that was the man leaving his nine to five and wanting to jump in the lake and swim with the moss and fishes. animals seemed to scare easy and talk back and I was glad to know that someone was listening in moans and sentences and mind
fucks and sex in the bathtub by one’s self and the self excuses us from the divinity that she understands to be inside her. I was always thirsty and could never get my fill and I drank and drank and needed other and to be othered and it was never enough to just fall into the mirror to get sick and cough and spit up the liquids of life and decision and then go home and lie and lie down and sleep as if sleep was not awake and able to be the monsters that we really are when the sun goes down. listeners were symbols of mythology Horus and his fathers scoffed at hegemony and social control did not exist to them then in the era of the butterfly and bread and butter. triangles pop up in daydreams and people always want to know what I am thinking and writing expressing in waves of oceanic refugee. pull me out of the water and I just yearn for the sky that
drips and soaks us to show me that wet is better than dry. horoscopes were mystics way of communicating mathematics and I just felt there was more to people than cells and brains and waves of lifeless energy that helps us paint and create and deepen into the dragon. my mind works in mazes of chess boards and sex dreams whores on the street and stilettos getting stuck in the cracks of the pavement outside my house. and breath and breathing and needing to breathe and wanting someone else’s breath seemed a giant waste of time. and cancer is sweeping the earth of us and the demon under your brain in the space between your spine giggles and knows that the battle is already lost in the young david as he steps up to see the golith in front of him. but he does bash his brains in , david to his golith, the famous story of mind and spirit over matter but
death still comes knocking on the door whistling that tune you can never remember the name of. cats hiss and spit like adults do in church and it would seem to me that listening to the pitch of the organ was more important than the organ itself playing some damn tune we have heard forty times to different words over and over and over in a way chocking me out of my vitality and importance of art. muses came in different colors you know in the spaces between serenity and sleep. insomniacs must have it rough like a face scrubbed on the pavement when you sit in your chair and listen to dirty tunes about the stone age and posters being held up on walls with glue.
lust and angels and kundalini became a jumbled mess inside my head and no one wanted to dive in there and sort it out, not even me. the carpet scratched its head and gave up on telling us the way up the mountain was the dig under it and insight a volcano of activity and mist and heroines coming to the rescue of princes in distress in the tower with their hair long and their skirts down around their ankles. what?
does gender stress you out like pathological liars and re-gifting gifts that your cousin gave you when he was six and you were twenty and it seemed a damn shame to shame the hunted. did we not have enough trouble as it is with the water up to here and the breath staggered and did you know that you are not alone? the sunset will forgive your faults and give you new lifestyles to explore and try on like a new pair of shoes that you steal from your favorite store in the mall. I came up and saw around and shook my head, wagging like a dog on its deathbed and
I found light in a new day and darkness in a new night and that was just fine with me. and the truth is alright with me. this is for no offense and I just like to spit out profane and spiritual and one and the same and different and equal and separate like two trains running in the opposite directions.

Please research Helene Cixous (especially her piece titled Laugh of the Medusa) She is an amazing writer, philosopher, mystic, and feminist activist.