The Witching Moon's Eye

The witching moon’s eye

opened inside my brain,

shivered in the cold,

dark,

breeze

that flit through my ears,

forging deep into my swollen head,

the eye blinked and shook the dust

off her glossy wings.

Now awake,

I cannot wriggle free

from the visions,

or escape the skulls

lining the sidewalks,

howling for their bodies

that no one seemed

to crave to find.

The golden locks girl

applies her make-up

in the taunting mirror,

paints her face on

to look like all the others

that are lifted up before her

as the examples to be acceptable pretty,

slips neatly into

size zero jeans,

still hating herself for

what she perceives as being fat.

Halter top beauty queens,

finding faults and flaws

in every looking glass

propped up in front of her

and behind,

because this sadistic torture society

wants to teach you

that you always lack,

you are never enough just to be you,

so you will buy more products

to fill the aching void,

as if material could ever quell the lonely.

Silly girl could never be worthy of love and light

until the souls been

sucked out by the consumer system:

plastic dead doll Barbie:

the epitome of the perfected teased tight woman,

strangled in the American dream-

a child’s toy that

will gladly and with great apology

for any inconvenience to the master,

fit itself into the plastic coffined box,

keep its mouth tapped shut,

staple holes where

the eyes of the goddess used to be.

I saw the women around me

chugging diet pills like breath mints,

washing them down with tequila shots,

no lunch or dinner thanks,

laughing at rape jokes

so as not to upset the status quo,

hissing venom at each other,

tearing other women down

to boost their glamour shots

and perceived righteous ratings

for the likes of the porno-minded men

who really just wanted

women who looked like little girls,

for us to beg to be bruised

and broken into tiny pieces

that could be hanged on the mantelpiece

of power lust, greed, and patriarchy.

Fuck the hell hounded media,

the scoffs at any fragment of individuality,

demonizing cures for anxiety and cancer,

heaven forbid a sense of self-worth,

idolizing violence,

rape and pillage tactics,

concrete aggressive erections,

faked orgasms to boost pathetic egos,

submissive whispers of women

so as to not disrupt male dominance.

Instead we must enact our luscious,

loud erotic beings,

tearing down the cannibal structures

of wall street,

screeching lusty odes

to awaken our

fellow artists and empaths,

gentle sisters and brothers alike,

marching hand entwined with hand,

to cast out our sick oppressors.

Our time is now,

to writhe open our throbbing pulses

and rise

ghosts from their walking graves,

vampires from their tainted mausoleums,

witches curving and swaying upward

from their burned ashes,

lovers and prophets

thrusting forward,

shouting,

demanding,

the fall of the

capital consumption empire.

Just breathe and know

that you are electric elegance

wrapped up in an angel,

you don’t need their chemical produce

and liquored fantasy bullshit.

You are loverly and exquisite

just as you are. 

Erotic Exorcism

Chewed through

with gnarling teeth

the strains of capital intake

for the wall street erections,

We, the supernatural ghosts and grand giants,

shaking and quaking

in holy pleasure

and connection to the

collective spirit,

stormed down upon

the idolized dollar

to tousle you awake

from your sleazy sleep

of conformity and comfort-

you hid from the visions of

the abused poor used for

sickening science experiments,

money making for the already

privileged rich bigots,

battered women

tortured swiftly out

of their natural beauty ecstasy,

put in barbed wire wicker baskets and

burned so as to hide

systematic oppressive patriarchies,

the prophetic

deemed pathological,

turned “sick” with

hyperbolized disorders,

quieted and subjugated

by anti-depressants,

choked and stuffed full of pills
to erase any notion

that diverged from mainstream media,

subtly quelling our jouissance

without a sound or shudder in the daytime

though I was woken from my dreams

to hear the screams of the dying

and the innocent betrayed

by the very people who had promised to protect them.

The few grisly lies repeated on our brainwaves,

protecting the top corporations

(now seen as people?

….

what bullshit)

keeping them safe and cozy

in their soaking blood money

that they munch on for breakfast,

our red veined pain

runs down their rosy cheeks

while they snicker

with hand shaking and

back-patting in coroner white-breasted suits,

at the mighty joke on the rest of us that

we let feed our

self-loathing

through the psychotic

television tubes,

breathing heavy

down our backs.

Tricks and trade

drowning out the voice

inside my head that

whispered echoes of

awakenings,

enlightened sex and

erotic understanding

of the puppet factory that is

selling apathy and violence

as means to enrichment.

I touched myself,

ever so delicately at first,

slowly stimulating my curves,

then relaxed into bliss states,

to fucking hard and fast,

fingers soaked,

orgasming out the demons

of the past,

punitive damages deterred

due to “too busy” corporate meetings

in the belly of the underworld,

car crashes on

mountain peaks

without lifelines,

moaning out my

mourning for the

agony I saw scribbled across

your face as you

lost yourself in

self-induced chaos

instead of choosing

kundalini rapture,

angels with wings that

they didn’t seem to

realize they had,

to fly away from

the glorification of drama,

raping our young to sex slavery

and the mechanical porn industry

that taught to take now 

and ask later.

I wouldn’t be the

mouth-taped shut girl anymore,

rocking back and forth

in the mire of your

sickened periphery.

I was not here

to entertain you,

but to take your hand,

along with my heavy heart,

up and out of the quicksand

and drive us home,

away from the aggressive environment

and the toxic consequences of the world

of the “real”

which was really just one of many storylines

to choose from.

Slow down sex eyes,

breathe deep and down to

your pelvic thrusts,

I shall enter you at

the base of the spine,

raise up your back

to your supple neck,

cuddling your broken bones

in my empathy,

soak you in sultry sighs

of intuition,

throbbing energy

under your waking skin,

fitting nice and cozy in your

fancy bloodstream,

riot and raunchy ricochets

to cursive tones,

didactic vibrations

that pulsed to the stars

and back,

sinking deep into

your wounded ground,

lifting you up to the

astral sphere with

delight and coming spirits,

together changing the

polluted earth with our

sensual whispers,

back to the flowering forests

and flowing clear waters,

silky marshes,

radiant unashamed passions,

beaming and blooming forth

to the moon,

erotic exorcism

until every cell in your body

ejects light. 

Empire Crumble- Rise and Revolt

Taking tea

and precarious refreshments

in the man-made

soiled and sweating

sinkhole,

I squirm and

wriggled out

of the maliced mosh pits and

festering angry faces,

temper tantrums not being cute or helpful

with our own bloodied heads

being used as cement to build more

illness factories and stock market make-up schemes,

teetering towers for the grizzly heads of state.

Cemetery stones whispering

in humming harsh tones

about the rise of melancholy,

choked down,

gasping and gurgling slosh

with tasty teaspoons of

aspartame apathy.

Hierarchy demons propagating

counterfeited fornicating plastic masks,

fed forced and planted upon any

anarchy dandelion

who so much as dared to look

forward,

upward,

move in a direction

of equality and enlightenment.

We were cast out,

imprisoned,

scape goated,

cleverly whistle blown to

the depths of inferno layers

of the powerful fucked,

faked,

fantasy.

ha-

Im.

Not.

Buying.

Plastic credit

giving us selfish egoed fame,

dizzying delusional highs of

commercial catastrophe

and seeping drama addiction.

I spent my morning sick

to my bleeding stomach,

purging propaganda

and patronizing patriarchy,

giving then instead my

fierce and frightening

energies to revolt

in seas of pleasured nuances,

pure moaning breathing soft

on the neck ecstasy

with the simple act of awakening,

choosing to fight

psycho-pathetic doctrine,

a staggering wake up to

police state falsified forensics,

brutal tactics of paranoia

and serial brutality.

Gnashing our battered teeth

together in blazing brilliant protest

against sick greed and powerlust supremacy.

The time is ticking close

to the programed wires of the greenback filth machine,

thus the craving necessity to stand up,

no more bowed heads

in chemical injected reverence to the

sick hydra headed kings

with their sadistic twisted grins,

humiliation inflicted on the disenfranchised,

thus to aid the jacking off of suited men

in pristine golden armored bathrooms,

pentagrams and pentagons.

We shout loud and vicious,

screaming down walls thicker

than even Jericho could muster,

throwing down the privileged powerful

where they sleep and smirk at our

pain and agony.

Together we unshackle

our young and each other,

shaking the sleazy elite

from their frothing habits of

murder and cover-up covergirls,

rapes and muttering adrenaline fueled mass graves.

We turn our smiling roughed edged faces,

without fucking permission-

towards the sun,

into a new dawning age

of collective spirit and

freedom for all people.

Awake, we now must Rise.

the mad hatter awoke from the same dream

The mad hatter awoke from the same dream again with a shake and a shouting to the rafters- eastern and northern dimensions unseen by most everyone. The fortune of the house of cards looks fragile to say the best, and she worried that the dream would come true- sooner than later. Beasts hide only for a time in the depths of the darkness before curiosity perfumed animal hostess- the wooded glen and moors of a time without capital and recompense. We shall be forced to unhinge together or to fall to the frail and the holy grail matters- a hat of a whole different kindred candle.

Given pills to swallow, hard and condescending, we write together in the pit- once only to look up at the sky and shine through the heaviness of the heavens. I choose my own earthen serendipity, luxury and fork tuning gave me the risen preconditioning to look the red queen in her one green eye and laugh.

Fireflies were instructed to lighten the mood and they surface to the top of my head and out of my third eye, leaving me room to grow, outstretched and forgetful. I killed a man in my sleep and the church held me: armory and chivalry so small that it can fit in the space between my fingers. The mission moon betrayed our chess game to the serpent harlequin who never smiles. Where am I in this space that breathes and only rests to heal the sickened children of the New Damned Dawn.

Eyes mourned the dark circles around them and crossed finders that dreams can play hide and seek long enough for me to drink once again with the monsters that mingle amongst us. The wonderland senses help my mind to make one more connection, one more vision, once more give and re-take in the midst of sirens and venom teeth that have driven me utterly mad with reason. Lightening was the patriarch head of unions and battlements closed down for construction. Listen to the fireworks deep underneath your insides.

There might have been a moment- a silence that slipped by- that I could’ve saved my beaten down brain. I missed it, a fantasy and all now is but a glimmer of pieces of skin sewn together by strokes of a cursed luck, a pinned down angel who doesn’t speak of the things she has seen in the coming ages to pass through the eye of a needle, standing on a clothespin.

I bled from the inside and was diagnosed as deserving such an apostle of gruesome Leviathan. Bare your tongue to my lips once more and there will be nothing left. Horror in an instant was meant to change me forever. The twinkle in my throat snuffed out by the lycan divergence from my closeted younger self.

I must cry without warning for the instincts I’ve seen that strike down the spirits of hallowed saints and servants to the undertaker. I whisper- to no one- my story, my groggy memory and steamy lessons forced to learn.

To be honest, my lovlies and lillipads- I beg to forget yet the script replies in my head to every nuanced step forward. I reconcile my anger through confused and drowning waters: nothing, as of now, is at all clear. So it is then that I join the mangled masses of the dishonest, on our knees we listen to the wind wrap around the crypts of the elite.

I have it not in me to tell the whole truth, as it all happened- even if I could remember all grit  and dank opinions- all harshness and dissonant screams that echo through the shallow hallways in which I trespass.

God, please don’t take off my clothes again, never asking or polite. Demands are high for the wanting and violation was always signed on the blank page of my memory. Never a glance to my eyes, never hearing my cries late at night once home again- take a shower to wash you out of me again with soap and festering. I forever unclean and not trusting: fucking you or anyone else in this profane world. I am full to the earlobes with acid eating away at my lifelines. I keep quiet, head down to the dirty carpet and try not to breathe too hard.

Maybe it isn’t a good idea to re-think the past, trying to figure out why me. Whom do I blame, who can I love without warning and coughing. But I do listen to the past as I struggle to find a path through the mire and myth- most of which I’ve blocked out completely. I wish for clarity and to truly remember, but my brain disagrees and is as stubborn as I am. No, you don’t understand and neither can I, through and through with the rain still hitting the shutters of that house with such force as to summon the dead.

I curse the ground I tromp on and yet smile at a cup of coffee, a pair of kind eyes while I wait in line for cereal, a moment to myself to regain control of the events of my past and present as they flash by. Could I have deserved this at 17? Maybe the roman gods would think so- or so it seems the world would want me to understand. The mad hatter has no more comment at this time.

I may be prone to lucid dreaming and pornography but I have a vengeance that shouts down like a tornado and will channel my historic pain through the ages and future losses and despondents. I haunt the wicked in me, as my calling permits me so, that is the wicked in you and you still remain unclear in my visions in the morning.