Flood

And in the flood

of our tears,

pouring out of

our windows,

into the streets to

meet the rivers

and into the ocean,

our dead children

shriek

and we shudder in their

shadows,

trying to listen hard to the earth’s vibrations

to find some kind of humanity again.

Ive lost sight of it

in the midst of the blood

and misery.

The dark angel

came into my room,

winged death,

and I was not afraid.

Death was no stranger,

her beauty and wisdom

shimmers through the darkness,

and she tastes like honey,

between her legs

runs a tempest of

a storm that will eat you alive,

if you ask nicely,

venom and cinnamon,

and whispers

of the Mayan end times.

I lift my voice up to the sky ceiling,

for us,

my fellow heathened angels,

our eyes dark and blazing,

sparking prophets,

harlequin saints,

having laced fucks

with spirit sex and magic

in the deep night,

all hands

and mouths

open to the awakening

cuming inside

each other,

vision and visionary,

unite in wet dreams,

cock and cunt,

and lips, breath,

fading into moonlight,

sighing in reverie.

Damn it all,

it was in my head,

just a dream,

I woke up always alone,

in a blaze of

serpent and phoenix,

intertwined with my bones.

Good morning.. 

The Window is trying to tell you something...

Dances in the dark with a microphone
and a razorblade.
The devil’s in the freezer with Dillinger’s bank roll
and the smoked salmon
that was caught in the mouth of the Pontratrain.
I cascaded on,
deeper and deeper,
through you spine,
moving through the heated beats,
black cat on your grandmother’s carpet.

I sang of presidency and clockmakers,
the same destination,
different names.
God racked across the volcanoes
that sunk Atlantis to the ground,
and the raven screams the descent
of the Mayan calendar.
Out of the corner of my brain,
I saw you shudder,
the town burns,
the apothecary replaced
by math equations.

Do your dreams ever resist
what the mind believes to be true?
I thought swans were swarms of bees,
and are you to tell me,
that they are merely white birds?
You are boring,
when you pick hide and seek,
over trauma and heroin.
It was not enough,
never enough,
to sit across from divinity,
head down,
reading your newspaper,
pleading the fifth amendment.
- Megan Coleman