Candlelight and Asphalt

My nightmares

woke themselves up sick

with sticky alarm clock noises,

windows taken out

of their frameworks,

tiptoe tapping out

their despair

on the hardwood floor,

glass shards stripping

whilst I watched

their sharp edges twisting

in the moonlight streams.

I slumped over in my

queen size bed,

sheets

sweat sex soaked

by some brassy whispered man

who drank screwdrivers

and laughed,

to cover awkward moments and

my eyes staring

through his head

to the back wall of my room,

wondering when all this

silly business

would be over and

he could stumble out,

into the streets,

leave me alone

with my candlelight.

Whether you wanted

to watch or not,

I danced trauma

out the body,

flooding onto the asphalt,

the way music embarks

on a journey down

your insides,

in the heat of the

pulsing lights,

mirror and make-up masks,

ghosts in their taunting sanctuaries,

blood in vials,

singing out its sweet syrup requiem,

calling upon the angels,

wanting to again

tangle and twist

round bones,

thump in veins

that resurrected

ideas of hell of heaven,

depending on the worn out weather,

and the days and the way

waves of ether energy

circuited the brain.

I could feel myself

pushing new waltzing

people away,

putting up fronts

and barriers,

fences so fierce

and foreboding,

because deep under the earth inside me,

I wanted to trust you,

believe that I deserved

love like yours,

but still quivering

in my storms

that raged in me

and the learned path

of wicked brier,

death and abuse,

the past ripping

my pained flesh

away from my

tender skin,

couldn’t turn off the

mayhem and flashbacks,

harsh manipulations,

fucks that made

me nauseous,

rapes of my innocent self,

cascades of

gritty egos and

religious doctrines

forced on me

under the cruel guise

of love and helping me out,

away from my perceived dirty habits.

I didn’t want to be saved

by the nasty likes of you,

licking the wounds

on me,

that you yourself

had inflicted

and then laughed about.

I purged your toxins

out of my system,

all day,

every day,

with a frozen shudder

in hopes that

I can rise above you,

out of the murky marshes,

into the delicate arms of trees,

looking skyward. 

Alice Watches

I guess you

didnt see alice

watching you,

like pictures

playing,

dolls dancing

round,

speaking in

sounds,

in my head

I saw you,

sensed your

waves and

deeds done

over sneaky smiles,

twitching eyes,

closing doors

quickly,

pacing lines,

walls smoothly

shutting down

on themselves.

I looked out windows

to forget

sad nuances,

maybe days

or minutes

of ceiling fan turnings over

hazy rapes

on carpeted bedroom floors,

razor blades,

molestations on cruel couches with TVs blaring

war re-runs,

callous thrusts on hard cement

driveways without words,

violations in truck beds,

sadistic cornerings against sleazy offices walls,

closet shamings,

between singing

and crying howls for mercy

though he would never listen,

between humiliations

and manipulation nails,

phone call lies

and degradations,

you are silly,

you are stupid,

you are dumb,

and why cant you

see how wrong you are?

I ate a hole in

my head to

shut you out,

over and over,

again today

and every day,

sometimes now,

the way you made

me feel comes

back to me

as a flash of thunder,

ricocheting off my bones,

thumping like a swamp

inside my skull, 

a scream,

and I crawl,

slimy to self-hatred,

that 17 year old girl

loving a tyrant

just across the

sun-harsh way.

And then I shake

awake again.

Ah!

to breathe

and stumble

out,

a dragoned

witch-

haunted,

but in the lovely moonlight,
I was the bringer
of my own passion,

so softly touching
and healing myself

by liquid fingers,

ever just so,

oh,

sultry vibrations

moved and pulsed

the body

upward to

divinity in

ecstasy, always.

Enlightened pleasure

is deeper and moaning,

heavy sweeter,

mmm,

oh,

fuck yes,

please.

Awake now,

I see.

Your cruelty has no

power over me now. 

Shaken

Click, click, clacking,

radios spinning

in wonderment

at vowels

spat out

by my tongue alone,

in the night

as I dream

awake.

Orgasming out

sex dolls,

juicing flames,

forked fucks,

confused laughs,

harmonic whispers,

erect philosophies,

sensual shamans,

pagans named

in different

masks

keeping

abstract

whirlwind time,

boots set ever so delicately,

on the floor,

after banging and blitzed,

pressed backs

against cupboards,

titillating the glassware,

scratch marks

down the lily and violet

wallpaper

to the left of the bay window,

honeydew holiday

breakfast nook,

we moaned together,

though then I flashed to my

inner mockingbird harlequin,

stained with

crumbling castles,

cruel alchemy

performed on top of me,

tortured apothecaries

enacted,

poisoned elixirs tested

out on my breath,

my sex,

my bones broken,

and blood

bled dry,

round and round

we go,

with the wrath and miracles,

merry go weary,

and I wondered

if even the ceiling fan

would bother to care,

would remember my name,

when I go

quietly and quickly

from here

with a shudder

and a lick of my Cheshire lips,

a mad hatter shake of my hips.

Goodbye alice,

oh how I miss you

in the mists and the sun. 

A Madhatter Toast

Ode to the People:

Cheers my

sisters and brothers!

Lets raise a glass

of absinthe or

bourbon straight,

margaritas on the rocks

to stallions and cigarettes,

fairies in trees,

Irish whiskeys with jigs

in the twilight.

Here’s to Salem witches,

their poor bodies burning,

and especially to those

prophetic perverts,

dragons in an age

of dying magic,

we rock back and forth

with the tide.

And here’s to the believers,

hell,

I can respect that faith

though my dad died

young and left me stranded

so I revolted and spat on the ritual rites

of mainstream media religion

and then,

well of course,

in the fall,

fell for an Order Oracle,

faith folders,

rock paper scissors

rapes by

robot masochists,

of sorts,

and over in

my bedroom lay

thinking of

the ceiling fans

in rooms of

my daughters round the world,

abused and befallen,

I danced a long

bloody waltz

for you in

collective consciousness,

I performed for

the chessboard,

you asshole,

not your raspy idiot

hanged man,

not the high mighties

and their

grasshopper injectors,

I cast you out,

demon fool.

And drinks

with extravagant lovely

toasts,

to those lost

dark eyed boys,

riding the sea

as if they owned her,

I watched you

in grocery stores,

cocaine drifting

sniffers

under fevering festering

florescent lights,

lifting ladies skirts

with licking lips,

snickers and many snarlings,

blisters and boils,

plagues of old heresies

holding you back,

and ahh

fuck it,

just dive in

and let the water

wash over you

with well and welcoming

in the moon

and the night,

healing your scars,

our wounds,

amen.

And holy shite,

I almost forgot,

c’est la vie.

Lifting cups to moist lips,

roasting sweet elixirs,

here’s to the

people from out of the woodwork
staggering out of the wallpaper to

wrestle the angels,

they come,

in shouts,

in soft voices,

late stirrings,

tunes played loud

through headphones,

on futons,

mattresses

slurred along with

sloppy mouths,

tongues etching bodies,

tight cunts,

deep fucks,

ink stains.

To the British

comedy tv shows,

played at 4 in the morning

when no one else

seemed to be aware

of our screaming planet,

aching for release,

dripping pleasure

over sheets,

in hotel rooms

with whiskey sours.

To the earths

revolutions round n about

the universe,

metaphysical planes,

stretching and moody,

drinking way too

much coffee,

giving handjobs

on horrible

orange shag carpeting

with metallica

on the phonograph.

To origami flowers

given to first girlfriends

of estranged

lesbian tendencies.

To the masculine

aqueducts,

the builders of

great art and photography

that left her

with a tear

raining down,

ecstasy and excellent,

hard huge cocks,

wrapped round the thick thighs of time.

To orgasms in

the mornings,

on the way to work,

in bathroom stalls,

grease pits,

office supply closets,

hands gripping bedposts,

asses slapping hard,

thumping with
pulsing organs,

heart and lungs,

bones and requiem.

To the glint of purpose,

a path,

a non-suicidal moment,

an end that’s always and already

a beginning,

to the troubled

in their weary ways,

raise a glass.