Let Me Sway

The entertainment of it all,
kept me distracted,
from the growing pains,
twisted pill brains,
the mad hatter stains
on the carpet.
I'll find a way to groan all night,
slow dancing,
taking me away from the darkness
that suffers me and
seems to forever invade my vision
and sleeping patterns.

I can understand Oedipus gouging
his eyes out in weary wrath,
though there may yet still
be beauty to be found in the twilight,
with shivering and quaking
of our anatomies,
the energy frequencies of
fire and ice,
played by a traveling circus
speaking in tongues,
strong fiddle and much
vodka drinking and licking of spices
out of the air.
The gaiety may be
just beginning.
I felt a rise in the weather warning,
the Moon's even lurking angry,
The Women around me grow hungry.
We crave to be lifted out,
bathed in our own nights
of lust and light.
We ache to be fucking heard.
The desire rises to my teeth
to pump blood,
move my body,
hard pressed against yours.
To write the Machine down,
brick by brick.
If I must alone,
I will.

My muses and music may change,
but once I regain concsiousness
from the heartbreak of it all,
I engulf in flame
and start over.
The Phoenix weeps for me,
and I thank you for that.

Enough.

Bloody love and tears,
Jesus- just look at me
and fucking say it,
I want to hear those
pill induced "truths"
spit out of your hot mouth:
you don't love me,
Boy doll stupid.

Kill me just once more,
please baby,
and ha-
write you out of my sucken spirit,
sink into the mad hatter
to stop the crying
and the horrifying sanity.

Oh, don't worry,
morning sickness,
sex between best friends,
I push,
you pull,
and come around again.

And now you sleep
while I feel you loving her,
hurting me and
pretending not to notice.
Daft puppet,
apathetic tyrant,
you make me so very tired.

I suppose I regret falling
in love with you,
happy monster,
you drained me of my self-assurance.
Knowing nothing anymore,
lie to me a little longer
because I need that from you,
I guess, hell,
I don't know.

Nightmare intuition
be gone
from my skull!
I loathe these images
that flash in my head,
jesus turn them off,
I beg you-
before I break
and never regain my fallen angel mythos.

And don't tell me
you understand,
because honey, you don't.
Schizophrenic mayhem abides
in the twilight,
ever lurking
like a virus that's
knocking at your back door:
"I want in," he screams,
"and I know you can fucking hear me."

Join the circus with me,
the inner freakshow in you
always smirks at me in the dark,
inviting my energy to slip inside you
when you're not paying attention.
And deep underneath you,
I know you love it.

War paint

New skeletons are marching
against the rythmn of the angels.
Teeth grinding,
sweat dripping,
bones crunch together
to break the staggering sunlight.

Knock, knock,
the doctor enters
to fix my fits of spirit.
You starve me
into silence.

Warpaint glistens,
footprints remark on the weather
and the whisper of anarchy.

The traffic light
is turning green.
Time is ticking,
muses are awakening.

Drinking in the Moonshine

            Ah monster, I’ve found you again: alive alice and hungry. I embodied all characters around me: pop pulp, culture through a looking glass circus, I watch the dances play before me with their twisted features, small and large colors over the rainbow, and then I take on their faces, manners and places. We can step into someone’s very veins and get lost in another person for awhile. I seethe back to life, awakened like a frozen stone Vulcan waiting once again for the fires that burned before him inside the mind seeking night skies with moons falling. I am not one to be eaten lightly. I will rise from this stretcher, this carnaged plane. I scan the dead and try to hold their last breaths in my hands. I hear you, in the dark, your cries for fear of the earth’s large enough mouth to swallow you.

            I opened my throat wide, wet from drinking in the moonshine and ran back into the forest for cover. The plagues are coming once again with oil as we drink, raping the shamans of our ages, genocide we watch and allow in countries of our brethren: each act of violence was leaving all of us to bleed, don’t you see that? I retch up the violence that sits outside of my very window, blood spills down the trees and sinks back into the earth. I am coughing up the venom that attacks the airwaves, the media living us a lie.

            The sisters shifted me into creation making love to the air around her, weaving in between the breezes, she dances to remember who she is when the sky turns to light again. the ghosts in the hallway like to knock on my door with an impatient hand. We know you’re in there. Mentioning the dead always causes a morose silence and shifting eyes, fingers reach for something to entangle themselves with. We must muse out among the crowd and make resounding voices. 

            Unplug the machinery attached to you with strings, doll’s house living must no longer get blood pumping and molding out into something pre-processed and manicured to glint in the light just right, ah yes the shine of capitalism. 

Tapped Telephone Wires: Medication Media and Madness

            Telephone wires were cut way too much in the city of supposed seraphim. You ran to those corners daily to get the news that the devil came back into town today, wearing an apron. I stumbled upon the hermit daily, talk it out through me and we will all hear you, one way or another. I will not falter at the last steps towards a new age and times changing into the infinite. We march on, regardless of the temperature (though it is stifling hot out there to be sure).

Apart for the medications media and the melancholy madness, how are you? I seem to be somewhere in between desert storm and a chainsaw through the mad hatter’s hat. Bones are scattered in the sand, left driving us home in the middle of the night just after the bad storm that shook the house's tight rafters and below.

It was rotten luck to catch the steal wagon on a blazing day as this one, the wheels burning and slightly crooked, veering towards the right. Exhausted from interrogation and searing tongued vertigo, I wait- for time to erase itself. Ancestors’ role-play in their graves and wait for you to wake up, hide behind something else for awhile.

The caged know-it-alls sit in their thrones and panic on the moats around the bedroom, I shake as well sometimes for fear of it again. 

Cancer Choke and Shamans

Cancer stood and then shouted in every room of my goddamn house. There was no talking him off the ledge, no bargaining for an adult conversation or a quiet discussion of pros and cons: just flax and golden dripping cells that liked to jazz the night away with his headphones on and tantrums ablaze until the thirteenth hour when the elevator seemed stuck and the liquor flows on down the hall and sinks into the carpet, secret requiem and lacrymosa valentines.

Let’s grow toxins and tumors and then build a home here, bring the kids and the grandparents and we will set up horrorshow camps in this darkened space, warped telepathic channels and dissonant esoteric figure heads that just enjoyed the sound of their own babbling voices. The brain was a shuttle bus that was never on time when the earth cancered us all, delivering our bodies to the maker and forever taking me away from my kindred hearts, my nights and mornings forever lost in the fire.

Lust and loss came in the room together holding hands. These two requested to be named together for this number and I can only cater to the faceless ghost that is the language that I have, the words didn’t bother me too much as long as they kept their mouths nailed tight shut like a orchestra conductor on his coffee break.

Incarnate cancer into an embodied angel, I shall wrestle you until the tide comes in and washes the sand off my body and away into the a stream from once I ascended onto this green and bloodied mound, this haunted and landscaped protagonist. Make me sick to my stomach with hallucinations and voices of the dead weights on earth

musing with the lightning bugs that circle the lampposts in the summer. I miss the thicket talkings with the slimy banks and muddied river as it descends into darker waters and the ice hungers to be birthed to the surface again, the distant embryo making lovers sense they are not alone in a war that will tear them and then wear them as protective gear for the undercover insurgents.

My limbs then quake from the turbulence of the storm clouds colliding, the mannequin masked faces tied to strings from heaven seemed to cry and then lapse into an iconic moment of memory loss and seizures that erupt on the planes and folds in my brother’s head. I wanted to shave off my years of living to let you have a few more moments of life time. Blood knocks hard on my brain when you lay up at night, staring at the swirling ceiling that does not forgive easy.

Cancer chokes me with my sleeping hours- mixing in time with the seconds in which my eyes are open to the dreams of my fellow fornicators and fundamentals. Coursing thunder skies above lead me to ponder the death of my sweet sanity and all of her friends lovers over the years of the monkey.

Die fiercely and forever, epitaphs that never encompassed the essence of a broad or narrow idea of a being, mostly a gloved hand holds your own as you watch the casket set into the ground. Time carries us away but does not make things easier than baking bread like my mother

used to do when I was young and confused as I am now and indeed living on lighter fluid and harsh harmonies that drown out the lead actors (causing quite an angry weatherman to predict hazardous conditions in all of the nation-states and decimal caves of the coughing underworld).

An appetite for shamans and pencil lead was not uncommon in this part of my basement, thus I let you have your way for just this once. I will die to resurrect you, the phoenix takes the fall and will not bother to ask you if you mind or what you want or where to meet once all this filthy Freud

century is over. Choice was as variant as the music that wines and dines the base of your neck, your bones weakening to temptation with the night as it is in the flesh, and tourniquet trains slid through the brains of the cancer patients yet to be discovered, yet to be shuddered and sensed out of their minds- alone with me- we shall rock and sit and talk about our next frame of reflection, the light of a candle, the end of a lovely afternoon, and the words of dying men.

Sink down into the river with me

Cerebral fluids were escaping through your tongue as we parked in the garage and made out for an hour until the thunder stopped. I was aware that you wanted to take off my clothes but I felt a hint of the demon rising up against the twilight, circumscribing our lines and curves, imagery in an instant. Perfumed whores lead the way to the resurrection, and you can’t seem to see the signs that the world is coming down with its head in the groundwater that runs off the hills near my house.

             Sainted seclusion thwarted this broad flavor of tempest, our inaction to thirst and swiftly tilt vertically towards the starlight. Sink down into the river with me, bending tides with our bodies we come to the surface as infinite invalids with our medications and syrups mixing with ebbs and flows of blood and water. Wine tasting kept my eyes shifting north to dimensions unseen by the carpet and the trainers of circus freaks. Mystery involved itself in our dealings with breeding hounds of hellfire and third-eye sightings of ice under water and breathing.

            Heavy sighs come from the back corner of my room, no one standing in the midst of scarves and suspenders, lingerie and secrets, post-it notes taped to my wall to remind me of my future, twinkling lights and lamps of all sizes, laughing postcards mixing with the reverence of the stereo. 

            Din cries in the midst of the hangover hurricane, harbors born anew from the wombs of the wounded wonderland women, abortion laws held tightly to my chest, making it hard to breathe in this sea spray ceiling. Refer me to your maker and mark these syllables as a divergence from destination. Pathways to resistance can turn and follow me home when I wasn’t expecting company.

            Muses running through their dollhouses, graves arising to meet the family, and you set down your glass for a moment to recover from the end of the receiver telling you that your dad has gone to play a joker’s hand in the world of hysteria. I seethe then in insomnia and sit on Harlem’s porch-light stoop, heavy and unforgiving. Creep show ladies scoff at the dying of their pockets more than the weight of the world and its brethren, howling in agony.

We come together, patching wounds with calm and heart-warming hands that pulse a healing fever like your grandfather did when he was alive. Death can be a brain stinging sensation of tyranny, chaos metaphored to a migraine and a mild sedative. Twisted euphoria, I gave in to the thrills of nature- systems of oppression sent secrets to the forefathers of the pyramid, sitting high on thrones of incense and enamel. 

Wait for the quantum electric, see the sun god and say hello, and then there is the forgiving the cast of masks for the torture of the youth which is the hardest eye to unblind: humanity wrapped up in its little shell- so unaware of the crawlings and carryings on of the forces of gust and sensory. 

Tick Tock Alice...

The vampire in the watchtower
will always follow
the muse to the basement.
And between the beauty myth
and seven cups of stale coffee,
I hum that song that was on the radio
in the car with the faulty seat belt,
passenger side,
"Will you bleed with me,
at that mad tea party
with no room?
Alice, please."
Tick
Tock
Tick
Tock.
Three weeks and 13 spider bites later
it occurs to me
in a sunset of broken dishes
and smaller loads of laundry...
that half the dirty hand prints
on your white-washed walls
are mine.
I'm your fucking lunar eclipse.
Play time is over.
Drop your toys,
empty your pockets,
cause the muse is purging
the pain and tequila shots
out in the bathroom.
And the Vampire,
is just waiting
till you sleep
lullabyes and antihistamines.
Let the feeding begin.

Picture taken from: Brenda Marks
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