Living Hope

Taking deep long breaths,

letting that ocean

of live energy

overcome my chakras,

Im taken to other

planes in my dreams

n visions,

stock rates shouted over

the hallelujahs of our most precious

angels,

the truly awakened,

your broken bones

ever dancing

in the rain,

I remember you, and

through the pain

and tears shed,

we live to jive juicily along

anyway,

to connect,

to summon good and

Goddess light,

love round us,

through us.

I wanted to birth

some sparkly

spectacular hope,

in the crowded

angry street,

through the grit and

the grime,

envelop love on

top of your skin,

so hard,

you and I

could forget

who we are separately,

since separate is illusion anyway,

just for a second,

opening the universe,

and ourselves

to the holier heaven

that here on earth,

is possible.

Out damned demons!

I cast you

out,

ha,

soak yourself in

your own fears,

if you must,

for I will have

none of it.

I can see a better

way to live out,

someplace in the

snows of Michigan,

standing in the

cold sun,

there was a memory

of home,

and happy,

and hopeful fairies

landing in

twisted skirts

and spirits laughing,

witches and our soups,

thank you

forever

for your wisdom,

rhymes and riddles,

listening more,

learning faster,

hush now lovely,

the light is coming.

This is dedicated in memorial of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

April 4 

Live Erotic

Hostaged dragon

writhing and coiled up inside

the fire-breathing lust

of a woman,

my hands trembled

with pleasure and fury,

hurricane gypsy with

her tangled tormented wings,

pinned to her sides with

bloody bobby pins,

weeping howls

from the one-eyed

moon which gave way to

sex sounds and

absinthe drenched fairies

winking in her wake.

Mmm in reality,

the fall felt fucking good,

to let go of the future

and give in,

a miserably sweet surrender.

I opened my lungs back up to your breath,

pulses pumping,

twisted moon ravished

me on the mountaintops of

your deepest dreams,

the ones

of course,

that you don’t even care to remember.

I craved you in

my sleep,

though I kept my mouth shut,

glint in my eye,

dripping tongues

left me hopelessly helpless

only till morning,

when you dawned on me again,

and I woke up radiating wrath and

dangerous spells I learned

at the beginning,

when magic was alive and waltzing through

our veins with a vengeance.

This was no time to be silent,

Im afraid,

that time has come and gone.

We act now or die.

Rise and reveal,

delve and direct

your senses to the earth and

all her secrets,

infinite orgasms and awakenings,

healing hands and metaphors,

take hold,

live unique, exotic, erotic.

Organic Cries and Records

In the dark,
I turned into the Harlequin Queen,
all animal rhythmn and intuition
funneled through
the sex hungry teeth
that kept me awake
early in the morning,
every
fucking
moon- caressed
sky beckons
me nearer.

Twilight begs forgiveness
though
no fault has
crossed her lips,
she'd rather take your wrath
and then lie to you
about the pain you cause.

In those midnight dreams,
heroin addicts
and their dead babies,
storms and grapefruit,
shaved heads and porn films,
green faeries
and bad business deals with
foreign powers
and the demons of machinery.

The mystics and their
mandrake potions,
kneeling at crosses,
healing STDs with lizard skin
and balsalmic salves
made in cauldrons in the
forests of eastern Europe
by the witchdoctors
from further north.

I hitchhiked through
the metaphysical plane.
There are burns
on your skin,
which you try to hide
when you're on a first date;
we carry our luggage with us.

The sages in the ground,
gypsies stepping
through the fire,
making you cum hard,
fight the patriarchy,
forget the meds
that are killing brain cells
along with
the liquor and cigarettes
you paid for
last week when you
felt ugly,
chained angels
still drinking the profit
poison-
steel hammer comes down
on the heads of the masses.
We barely escape,
and fuck in the shower
the rest of the night.

Slave market and
the stock exchange both
speak the same beast language,
bats cry in
the darkness,
the spirits glow in the moonlight,
taking my feet off
the ground and through
your aching system.

Filling in the dark places
with light,
we rock to the heat
of the drum,
back and forth together,
sex and records,
organic riddles of the body
and soft touches.
Fire begets ice sometimes,
and thus we are burning bright,
the rhapsody of my pulsing body
soon to become clear to you.

Dance out the Droid

Furnaces ignite the brain with ideas to change, morph, add somehow to the prophetic visions of the chaotic collective astral plane, a reality-eating glorious monster. Madness lighting our way through this lower hell plane we are forced to walk, this tunneled dark, this hole in the ground. 

Nevertheless, we push up through the dirt and the dungeons to the surface. Conditioned for quick conclusions, we miss that slow inner beat of the mind bursting forth to the sixth dimension, the firework generation lifts off to the seventh sun. 

Though these viruses may attack our nervous systems, we collide together and plead that the rain will seep through us, making us whole again and then standing in the sun for a moment to catch our breath. 

I stamp the earth in my resolution to shiver awake those sleeping beauties and winged seraphim snoring through the torture of the downtrodden, the suffering magicians of our day. Embody the drenching electric, dance the droid out of our senses, we feel again the air brush up against us. For a moment, gravity eludes us and we are free to roam the collective continent. 

Nightmares and Travel

the surging red rose anger smoothes through me and I feel uninvited to my own funeral. the sand was quick and unappetizing and I tried to shut my eyes from my own panic glass ceiling. I can think but only unofficially as a guard of the storm visions came sweeping up through the cracks in the stone floor that drips just twilight when you aren’t looking.

Attack the giver of blood that we were told was just wine with a bit of a human after taste. Don’t cross my bad day with your glossy sheen, your enemies are not mine to hunt down and eat for breakfast. I was tied to the ceiling fan and no one seemed to care to remember that my place was underground. I miss it there, the dim lighting and a cup of coffee to steady my senses.

Lift up the magnetism for an instant and you realize that I am just teething to scream out, to release some of the tension that pounded my head and gave me pain in my nightmares and travels to unique pleasures and circumstances. Villain of my mighty sword, I struck you down in forging a new mudslide through the desert. I distract myself from my own purpose though I can’t know where to go from here.

Temptation was my alley cat exterior. I was made for company of a darker side than you seemed to know even though you claim to know my insides caving in on walls of my room. I think you might’ve known me well in these times of crop circle deaths and skeleton tap dancing on the top of my head. Come from the closet and look my body up and down- with a smile, I exorcize you wide open so that you can see the moon soothing your burns and pressure points.

My mind was wild and ended up too much for the people who saw me in shopping malls and restaurants where I was only served water without a glass and a fake i.d. so that I could get into the party that I wasn’t invited to go to in the first place. I embodied the tortured spirit, the dying mythos of divinity. An art lost in the torrent of war and wind.

No psycho-bible bullshit can get me out of this hole in which I can only feel that there is ink drowning me in my own mind, over and over again until I am unconscious from this rape and take culture in which so many of us find it safe to hide.

My heart can’t be struck down, taken under to be alive for what you want or you need. No more unearthened secrets that taunt my psychic emotional despondence. Broken dove hanged as an example to other freedom winged mammals that death is coming faster for some then for others and I hate to watch the camera lense close. We give in with one last sigh and a wish that I had more morbid time to delve into the abyss that this world brings to my bedroom every morning. 

The Cheshire Cat Takes The Stand

Injecting hormones into the variant brain structures that are profiting the already wealthy, I saw the stains, the tunnels of twists and turns- we writhe together in the sand pit that is burning ice cold. Pain can be breathed through in a fashion of wit and irony.

I gave the Cheshire cat his moment to purge, to lengthen, to stretch and gasp: I understand you, brothers and sisters of a coming of tirade miracles. We were warned, I suppose- wanted also,

 I believe by many to harvest powers beyond our own control much less in control if the puppet master is the culture we stand in, waist deep and rising. Awake we find ourselves scarred and scared, one life can only be lived through others, maybe, I don’t know.

I strangle the riptides just like everyone else and indeed can for-see the violent shafts of light, liquid accommodation, haunting images of New Orleans figures- beautiful with passion to ignite the fires of hell itself, keep shining, I pray you. I miss you daily. Bayou is a loved and learned experience, a habit you can’t break honey. Got to get me back there soon to “re-vamp” as I suggest we all should. Oh yes, I think so.

Give us back the night, willing to dig and drive to metal what we lost thus to regain, in time, some of our divinity. Gathering together our tough instruments, distinct talents and forever fleeting backwards into a heron pond, we bite the thirst back to flex the feeble- misfortune had its mark, the hunted can be once again haunting.

Maybe I got on the ark as a virus, morphed and fizzed into this being, from time and time against the certain current, we got free all our windows and mirrors and now descend back onto the earth.

Was it worth it, this humanity, this language of congress, initiates of other religions and demises of all kinds, left stranded with the water rising a bit below your eyelids as you float and wait for some hand, candle, tapestry of wanting to be alive: rise above your awareness.

Alice standing in front of the looking glass again, watch her eyes fade in and out with the clock- hold on to yourself and plunge in again, as you do and we follow ahead.

I listened carefully to the cries- we lament the dead, the dying, and the living. Strange times are these when everyone is afraid to stand still in a moving crowd and look around. Is this what we want? Do we like where we are headed?

Masses blinded by a shiny object in the sky that is unattainable, capitalism spat out like angels- pathologized, cyborged, and aching scream out to a darkened sky. We only live once, or so they tell me. 

The Age of Machines

This is my reaction,

formally known for its brutally profane nature

of once bloodstained walls,

now white washed and shiny,

the color being gone,

thus the deed, unimportant.

....

The prostitution rites,

arched and heaving,

over the graves of the elite,

kept secret,

the last sigh of the hanged man

on the hill

that the church strung up

as a publicity stunt,

bringing in some extra cash

for the new baptismal pulpit.

....

I was asylumed-

twitching prophecy

that became internalized by the collective conscious,

as blasphemy and rhetoric.

....

The doctors come in,

white trench coats of the republic,

gave way to the revolution

over the rainbow and back again,

same shit over and over.

I could not see

through the labyrinth of the fire queen

and the white rabbit.

Beauty so horrifically defined

as to render one blind and deaf

to the dying of mankind,

and the age of the machine and madness.

....

I reached out,

one shaking hand,

from the black curtain,

and found cold steel

pressed against my palm-

exchanging blood for plasma

and volcanoes burning.

....

We ate dirt and pills

fed to us as caviar and saturated fats,

and we had the fucking gall

to believe them

without a sound of screaming.

....

Supernatural became a myth.

What?

I was told to follow behind

the stations of the cross,

a bloody tantric eulogy.

You are trying my patience.

The harlequin shaman

tries to wake up, open you up,

and ends up in a morgue

in Brooklyn,

where she was born,

back to dust

to regain, what,

honor? glory? Money?

Can I step into your cell

without purging

your caffine stressed,

cocaine repressed,

alcohol obsessed,

poetic reverence.

....

No, all I see

is bourbon sloshed shadows.

If you don’t know where you are,

what the fuck am I supposed to do about it.

The Awakening

I was caged by the ink pen you left on your desk,

a pinprick ever so slightly touched to the skin.

Was the beast on the left side of my brain

just you, walking from one shadow to another?

Between the cracks in the pavement,

I saw your eyes staring back at me,

shards of glass,

another mess,

another lifetime,

another tragedy that gawks at me back in the mirror.

....

Isn’t it funny how sensitive nightlights

wink back at you as you walk on by,

and you- not giving a damn what she’s trying to tell you.

I feel so much today

that my hands weigh me down,

shaking to the ground,

another dog,

another day,

another tower to climb over

as it tumbles down.

....

Mad hatter becomes me well,

in this lighting,

with the windows down

and the shades drawn in

to the scene around them.

I bleed tea and gin from overseas,

Kafka on his knees

begging for antenna

and holes to dig in.

....

Where do candle flames go

in the daytime?

To deep forests

where the dragons still dance,

and the moon bruises easily,

and the Holy Grail slumbers,

buried in the tomb of the Vampire King

who is just awakening.