Supernatural Moon

Mmmm and ooooh,

today seemed

fucking ravenous,

with winks from

the supernatural moon,

that kind of

fire-breathing

feeling,

deep down in

the belly,

feisty dragons

sitting in our stomachs,

boiling,

getting angsty

and ferociously impatient,

twitching and

skirting round

lampposts,

dark forest trees,

that taught us

everything in

reverent whispers,

between radical

silences and

plastic-tempered dolls

with burning eyes

in prison cells,

glowing red

and wrathful in

sex and

delight.

The desire to

fall head first

into pleasures,

kinky universes,

full of juices,

raging prophetic cunts,

soaking delicious

pussies,

sucking tits,

biting necks and nipples,

fucks with

hard gospel cocks,

first and second

helpings and

surrenders of all

our insecurities,

our self-loathings,

our trust issues

n such,

thank goddesses and

the paranormal excellence

within us.

To moan out

the sorrow,

into the ethers,

together,

as opposed to

the lonely gritty

feeling,

that slit our wrists and

caved us in

on ourselves.

Enough paranoia for now,

please,

strokes instead with

subtle seductions

would fit so nicely now,

snug tight round

my aching hips,

slithering in my

peripheral visions,

tempting me back to

my natural mystic jouissance,

the light

pulsing out of me,

throbbing with

the heat

and the night. 

Voodoo magic

I miss you, volcanic spirit,
driving in and out of my reality and preference.
I awoke with a start,
breathing heavy,
take one, two, three
soft steps on the carpet,
and freeze,
wait for the shadow to pass.

I whimper over your
shaking body,
live again and breathe ghost-
you haunt me ever still.
Damaged and bruised,
red dress,
high heeled black shoes,
I let you drive me mad.

Factory smell,
stank way down deep,
iron and fire and spit,
meld together
in the ethers,
I can hear the screams
from above
here-sitting on my bed.

The walls drip my sanity,
I hear the pain around me,
in and through me,
let me make it better,
Voodoo magic.

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. 

The Marriage of cause and effect

On this solid space of ground,

I am hollowed and tainted beyond

any hope of the resurrection.

My brain slowed and slurred together,

I watch the pieces of myself

float away on the river.

Monster inside gasps for breath,

stifled under these walls,

the light drained from the moon

with a teaspoon,

the strange darkness calls me inside itself,

deeper to fall until tomorrow.

The mind haunts its own

walls and secret coves and spaces,

in a twisting and screeching soul,

twitching from skull poisoning.

I’m stuck in a blaze

of someone else’s glorified suicide,

the energies strained me into

a new form of being,

one that I didn’t recognize

in the mirror,

in the whorehouse for which we stand,

salute and deliver me

out of the dark colored glasses

and into a world of dancing

under cursed skies,

at least free to scream out in the night

to no one.

I’ve got to slither out of this character,

the sirens calling me with

wails and slimy hands,

blood drips down their faces as

tears form the forest behind my house.

The ghosts stagger in single line,

out of my closet

and stand next to my bed while I pretend

to be asleep,

feigning comfort and restful poise.

I felt split and defiant towards

the ends of pleasure and fortified walls

made of glass and glue.

The effect has left the cause standing at the alter.

The War Horse

What is it like to be sitting in your room alone and trying to just figure out who you are and which script are we reading from now? The war horse once clawed hoves in the air dripping blood and ale as this anarchy fountain lifts its paws to the sky and blots out the sun, just for a moment. This feat and beast was then drowned slowly and is now a prancing pony in the travel circus that I may have been a part of in 1963 for a short time and that is the cat alongside a bag of wagon wheels or paint chips, tire irons, rusty talons, nails and tacks and so on.

The carpet now stands with her feet on the ceiling, speak bluntly kind sir and mind your manners. I sit now, calmly and write to you from a hole of a rabbit. The alligator shine’s his teeth on a razorblade while choosing his next victim- mass graves are the fashion of the time period. I hate a mockery of humanity that dresses us up fancy and leaves you feeling unveiled in the sun and slightly burning. Can you take me to the promised land?

Were there stunt doubles waiting in the wings for all our players and fortune soothsayers today and in the toady days to come: I can hear them from my open window tonight as they brave the trees in the dark earthen mounds of the backyard (a creature of a small variety but stout I assure you). The night can be a cruel asylum when I feel as if I’ve worked all within it’s slumber hours, and yet, don’t remembering the doing. Try to not speak out of turn or fifty hangings you must attend, wide eyes on a faceless and laughing crowd-the executioner wagers with the devil (or so I’ve heard) and gets his kicks from watching the dead man swing.

I hear the ringing of the watchtower bells even as I sit here, trying to get a silent peace in my head for once. I think madness is for the taking. I think bondage is time to be broken like the too many sets of dishes we have in our house just waiting to fly and split open with orgasm.

We, still the chained and downtrodden, must open our ears again to the beating of the earth-follow your brave snout, as it was and went on, wassailing till the end of the day. I see your sorrows painted on my walls like epigraphs and indeed tombstones hung from the catwalks on my ceiling. We fall like the tears on your face, again and again, and yet find the creative worth living for.

This interview is over for now, we continue on our journey through the slits in the blinds and the cracks in the hallway tile. I was a boy once afraid of lightening and then grew up, my head and hat through the rafters and was never heard from again. Until tomorrow then, the doctor calls for his nurse and uncovers his wounds; he falls to the floor dying from cultural stigmata, but the clock on his desk still wears a grin. 

Yes, there is a monster

            On eves of the hallowed, the lady fair walks out of her red doorframe and into the night with a cup of coco. Pumpkin heads on stakes with candles inside that give the impression of glow and stare as she lifts off her heals and peels out to the moon as if the ground would never be enough for her in a world in which she was destined to pretend that she was dirt bound. Creation took flight and thus she was able to see beyond the barriers of weight and gravity and seemed to receive a peace that the earth could not give her on nights when she became so forlorn that she wanted to lay down on the floor and be sucked into the under planes for a time.

            My God, My God. Who am I and where do I fit into this realm that stretches me shallow and rips me into pieces for the “common good”. I must choose to be derailed, disinclined to see the material as the majestic. Let us softly caress in the deep moments of prophet serving and diamonds could be forgotten once their sheen dulls and duels for our attention.

            Who is he that looks restless back at me in the mirror when I am angry and surging to change the defeat and surrender all that I see in the world of the real. I come from time warps and chastised brethren that falter with each new idea of empathy and mischievous undertaking. To directly pursue the phantoms that float in and out of my periphery cackling and shaking their fists with smirk and purpose. I sweat eagerly to find ways in which to be truly alone when I am not in the presence of another human form. The afterlife and the dimensional realms that encircle us are hard to quiet once they break the barrier with you one day when you are sitting drinking coffee and listening to what have you done when the nightmares start to get worse for the wear and wear me out in the nighttime when really I want to close my eyes and forget the visions that flash through my mind.

            Fight force with passion creativity and Armageddon is coming to sweep us off of our carpet stains and mail orders into a setting of warlords and the twilight monsters of the molten earth. Is there doubt in my mind that life is supposed to good, that people don’t die before they are ready, that as we sit and spit we are all dying and some unfairly so.

            To conclude this delusion of severance from the tiger’s eye and all these fine vibrating spaces around us, we twirl fortunate that these frail bodies do give us a place to sleep for the night. I end up in a rabbit hole regardless of what time it is anywhere. It would seem as if that is my purpose and I habit it as well I can. The fervor in my voice would have made you believe I was an animal of wit and magic maybe but I don’t know for sure. I seem uncertain of myself with all masks aside and put on the bathroom shower curtain to draw conclusions and dry for a spell. I am misanthropic fatal as seen by my performative audience.

            Channeling to the whole is difficult to judge by in the terms of through the white columned hallways and byways of international skepticism. Lying only became me when I was a monkey in the tree outside my neighbors’ house maybe on some Wednesday night when I didn’t have anything else to do. Yes, there is a monster of sorts that hides lonely and eager to get some stage presence in our drama for today, but I don’t let him out often in circumstances of the vile we drink out of.

            Where is our conference room in which I could read this out loud and explain- or demanded to try at least to whisper in the minds of the folk I live around. It was an odd assortment of discipline and slippery moonshine. Twas Brillig and so forth, and I was humbled by your presence in our house again. Was there anything I can get you? A piece of my mind to munch on casually or a scene from the hole in the ground... I was too shy to simply say what I mean and confront you in the mirror, dear players and characters of my mind infinite set in my brain that seemed more confusing than when I started this writing endeavor. 

The underworld was coming up....

The underworld was coming up through the floorboards as I watched a PBS special on the Knights Templar and Kate Bush. Was it respect they demanded, from under the ground, or was it just a tithe, a relic to find and kill over, slaying children in the street, beating the night with blood stained wrist watches, that will be burned to the god of poverty and guilty conscious. I can’t seem to slide out into the dark to watch the crucifixion of the seventh seal, a dripping wax candle stands in the middle, chanting about the end of the world and cursing the light and the son, the prophet of the chessboard. Screams from the women who’ve lost their birthing womb, run through with a spear in the side, hung on the cross of “third world countries.” The feathers are falling, falling off my wings that force me to see myself in the mirror: I will look into the glass, shattered and fragmented, and smile with content that the world is not perfect and I can only sleep with my eyes open. Another casket walks by and sighs, listening to the rain that falls above him, as I sleep near this cold stone epitaph that keeps him chained to the earth, he is being dragged down by the inferno and sarcasm hides the pain that he feels.
- 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.