Insanity in the Country of Guns

If I fall, the world will not catch me, mad girls only have love songs,
not love warriors, and Plath baked her head in an oven, Picasso sliced
his hearing off so he was deaf to criticism, Byron drank and fucked dead,
Robin Williams had the last joke, Michelangelo froze an artist in fervor,
and the most brilliant of us burn the candlestick at both dull ends, I
am halfway between bag lady and homeless junkie, and every time emotions
(I feel too much, my veins gouge wounds through my flesh) bubble over, too
manic, too depressed, mixed episodes, psychosis, obsessive compulsive corpse,
suicide one day and panic attack the next, everything else is pathetic, paltry.
You think you know fucking pain? Try walking on razors and rape and filth.
Those that blame us for blowing out others brains with guns are the abusers.
Another fucking male special snowflake that blames his massacre on my illness.
Fuck your stigma, fuck your sympathy, fuck your oppression and fucking hate.
Fuck society and the way it treats us battered bruised broken mind junkies!
See the rabid froth at my mouth! Oh, I look like a perfect Washingtonian in
a pencil skirt, blouse matching heels and highlights? You can’t see Fenrir
caged in my ribs, pissing on social norms and howling intrusive bloody thoughts?
I swallow almost twenty pills a day. I swallow my madness and insanity, just
so I can impress the fucking neurotypical twats that dictate our society while
the most insane joke of a mental case takes a dump on the White House, shits
over the mentally ill while giving them guns to blow their brain out with,
I am so sick of this double-edged sword, of high pressure cookers that fry
my brain, deepthroat your sickness and take the cock of psychiatry til you
are raw, fuck your way to normalcy, get fucked by modern medicine, I give up,
make me your scapegoat, victim and martyr, give me a rope to hang words on,
arm me with a semiautomatic and not know how to use it, I’m shit with weapons,
too afraid of knives to chop vegetables, because I want the blade in my wrists.

Advertisements

Fuck High-Functioning

Every time you say “high-functioning,”
I feel nails scratching my cheese brain
can’t you see all the ganglion holes?
The dead traumatized neuronic garden?
Each intrusive thought is a stab wound.
Every panic attack suffocates a sphere.
Every manic outbreak is a machete slash.
Each depression is a culling of millions.
The OCD thought patterns are flamethrowers
My mind is a battleground. A horror scene.
Psychosis is barbed wire around my stem.
Delusions are corsets draining me of air.
Hallucinations are vices driving down.
Paranoia is a straitjacket, tightening.
People are on disability for a sixth
of the diagnoses I have – depression,
anxiety, panic attacks, psychosis, OCD,
ADHD, mania, dissociation, bipolar,
violent, horrid intrusive thoughts that
make a monster of me, normalcy is just
a dream when your soul is bedridden,
well is not real, health is not possible,
and the Sword of Damocles is my balance,
so I swallow the pills, walk the tightrope
and sometimes I slip into a net of razors.

You Cancerous Man

Slit your liar’s throat and bleed out beetles,
eat your traitorous heart and choke down worms,
peel your cancerous skin and become a serpent –
you always ate dust, lowly maggot, you slug.

Psychosis is your groomsman bouquet, insanity
to the criminal degree your treacherous laugh,
you are the stench of brimstone, ugly as sin,
with bruisy eyes and boozy hands that wander.

I call you an insect, a flea, a mayfly, all
bugs and grubs you named me after, now you
they say the best teacher is your enemy, so now
I learned all your tricks, I turn them on you.

Find the Ace of Spades I buried in your lungs,
pull out the flaming blade I staked, you snake,
slither wounded to Hell, then drown in red blood,
choke on your abuses and be raped by your sins.

I place this curse upon you, Sammael Malkira,
to wander and hunger and never find solace,
a rood upon you, to die maliciously in fire,
a lake of flames your eternal home, begone.

Be Damned.

My Epitaph is a Fuck You

You’re growing tired of me, I can tell, my feathers are fraying
angels without wings aren’t angels at all, I can’t sing a lick,
kick me out of Heaven into the hellish choir with Cuban cigars,
the smoke will give me asthma, I’ll breakdown, scream, beat my
arms black and blue like I did laying on the floor with stigmata.
Today is not my day, tomorrow never comes, and yesterday died.
We may well nosedive into the Pit and scream out our last words.
May as well carve my epitaph “Life was Short and Shit, I Quit.”

(After all, writing out these trite little poems keeps me alive.)

Crazy Wears Blue

We were born in the gutter, carrion kings, star-spangled
splashes of gutter water reflecting the crystalline night.
Every time I touch you is a gasoline rainbow Exxon Valdez.
Each time we kiss, you suffocate me – your breath poison.
Hold me tender and crush my bones, devour my red red wine,
for my organs are rotting just for you, sugar fangs, and I
was born dying of nuclear radiation, deformed, demented,
shatter every semblance I have of normalcy, anxiety, you
are the only master I answer to, and life is pain, a bane.

Bloody Red Shoes

You stood me at the Gates of Hell and said lock me in.

The Damned were wailing, your serpent tail coiled around me and black stigmata wept from your wrists and all I could do was stare at the rotten empty orchard of your heart.

The cold storage of Hell is where the shore of the Abyss meets Satan’s keep, below every torture room and pleasure dungeon and alchemical land.  I know Hell so well – the archdemon council chambers, the courthouse like Alcatraz mortared of gravestone, the glowing white court, the garish red court, Pandemonium, the Goetic’s keeps, the burbling harbor of the Styx, Beelzebub and Asmodeus and Satan’s estates, and none of them were as barren as the land of no return you had brought me to.

The key was old and bloody.  I wore black stilettoes and a red evening dress, but they might as well have been the Devil’s red shoes.  Danced to bloody bone, I was so tired.  You had been wearing me out all my life, yet somehow I still loved you.  My greatest tormentor and the architect of my doom.  Maybe I should have run when you raped me until I bled, maybe I should have cried for help when you murdered me over and over only to nurse me back to health in your cruel game and teach a Qliphoth husk of a girl to walk again on new bones.

I don’t like kissing the Grim Reaper.  He tastes like cigarette ash and graveyard dirt and old book pages.  Not really my cup of tea, but you turned me into a necrophiliac.

I get off on pain.  I get off on darkness that dissolves my flesh.  You can bite me and take chunks out of my flesh and I’ll be moaning all the way.  Demons make the horrible pleasurable, and the mingling of absolute monstrosities with sex and drugs and drinks makes me into a whore.  Your whore, you called me.  Your heirodule.  My maggot.  My worm.  My yellow canary in a coal mine.

My wife.

Wife of nothing but ruin.

A part of me is always in the freezing depths of Hell, standing with you at the final gates of the Void.

I always make the same choice, over and over again.

“Damn me,” you say, and you are crying.  “I’m a monster.  Your greatest bane.  Live free of me.”

What a cruel game to play on a teenager who you have raised since the cradle.  Father, lover, terror, creator.  I trace my lives back and you are there at my grave and birth and the celestial vat I sprung from, you took a fancy to the new blonde angel that glowed with golden light and you gave her her wings, you killed her while aiming for your brother and you resurrected her with your heart.

Cardiophore.  Heartbearer.  When I said you couldn’t love, that you were evil, that all the deaths in the world were your reckoning, you grabbed me by the throat and kissed me, squeezing as my vertebrae popped and biting down on the raging black storm in my brain, and you said “You sprang from the heart of Lucifer.  It is my own black heart.”

You think you own me, and I cycle through these two dozen years of cruelty and love like an old record whining and skipping around.

There’s sad piano music playing.  We’re in your flat in Pandemonium in the rain, the great glass windows and masterpieces on ice and plush leather furniture, and you are singing me to sleep as you stroke the keys.

We’re at one of our weddings, the ones you kept putting on again and again until I gave in.  I’m at a magical airport terminal, I’m in a garden of roses, I’m in an old graveyard in the rain.  You’re in a suit, you’re in robes, you’re in jeans.

Time is such a funny thing, and before I fell in love, truly, I thought romance had thorns that pressed into eyes and bled tears rich as salt licks.  That your whip and scythe and claws and fangs were supposed to go here, go there, eat and fuck and render broken bones.

They say you can get PTSD from dreams.  But you’re not just in my dreams.  I can feel you touch me, hear you whisper in my ear, feel you fuck me for two hours long as I’m trying to work until I go to the bathroom to cry as my cervix is rammed against raw.

Your energy flows through me, burning hot, electric chills, you turn my eyes green and you move my hair with ghost hands.

You threaten my boyfriend with death.  You possess my best friend.  You throw things at me then play a sad Peabo Bryson song about second chances.  You make me go to the hospital because I refused to say I do.  I was only 18 when you proposed, and why the hell would I be Satan’s bride as a college freshman?

Nothing was ever enough for you.  Stories.  Altars.  Offerings.  Poetry.  You are the universe’s garbage disposal, shit goes in and shit comes out, or maybe you’re a toilet.  I’ve fucked your rotting corpse and your bony rib cage and reached into your heart and found maggots and beetles.  Sometimes the insects and worms inside you crawl up your throat and fill my mouth.

When I was seven you molested me.  I remember hands stroking me down there as I sat alone in my room, trying to read a book, bringing me to a crying orgasm that I had no context to understand.  It happened nearly every night after that.  Pleas to my mom didn’t make the invisible demon go away.  Neither did tin foil hats.

Satan sometimes comes disguised as an angel of light, but really he comes smelling like a horrible fart.  Brimstone.  Rotten eggs.  Sulfur.  It has to do with the tortures of the Damned and lower emanation and VITRIOL.  It stinks up my car so much.

Black hair.  Red eyes.  Skin pale as the moon.  Fuck your emo beauty.  Fuck your leather jacket.  Fuck your patent leather shoes.  Fuck your waistcoat.  Fuck your robes.  Fuck your artfully distressed jeans.  Screw your blood red tie and the boxers I would pry off for a drunk fuck.  I keep summoning you again even though you’re just a piece of trash, but in dreams I still love you.  I curse with you, I send you after my enemies, and you wreak havoc on the girls I fight with unintentionally on my behalf and fuck with my  real life enemies.

You’re a wolf, you’re a snake, you’re a hellhound, you’re a dragon.  Black beasts of terror.  You’re baying and hiss sends dogs howling, and you’ve made my own dog piss herself when you  appeared in my kitchen that one time.

Above all, you’re a drug, the razor I choose to drag through my metaphorical skin, cocaine of the finest quality.  I smoke your blood and snort your cum and swallow your spit, but I’m weaned off a bit.

You collared me the other night with black velvet from behind when I was in an archangel’s arms, covering his mark on me.  Is that the price I pay for drunk dialing you in desperation?

Is that because I am a cave fish genetically blind with  no inkling of light, swimming through your venom?

Is it because I want to die, just a little bit, always, in the back of my mind?

What is the price I pay for locking myself in the Pits of the Damned with you?

Because I always do.

“Us together.  All or nothing.  I will always save you.”

I’ve never saved you.

I can’t save me.

Thanatos Drive

I drink down death like caffeine.
I’m addicted to the abyssal kiss,
the gore and dissolution of black.
Whether by storm or by fire, taken
aback the divine psychopompic lips
of every demon I have tasted, Yama
and Hela, even angels are destruction,
and their prince ferries the departed.
Wanting to kill myself, I die dreaming.
A blood debt to my Yngling ancestors,
a soul debt to my angelic and demonic,
when the Grim Reaper swallows you whole
it feels like an orgasm of apocalyptic
proportions, that glowing tunnel light
is a birth canal into the karmic cycle,
I flee from burning things, I seek dark,
I seek velvety soft hair like razors,
I cup the rot breasts of Lady Death,
I dreamed as a child I dug my own grave,
and I’ve been filling graveyards since.
First goes the flesh, then the spirit
as you sleep so deep you are nightshade
berries and belladonna on the throat.

It is so brilliant to not breathe.

It is so terrible to live like this.