It’s All A Mindfuck

There’s blood and bandages in the prison cell, swirling ruby sparks and filth where rats feast.  Through the cell window the moon cuts the night until it howls in pain, and you’re chained to the wall, shackles on your neck and limbs, and you’re done up in linen bandages like a corpse, gore and claret red clinging to your bindings.  I stand outside the gate with an oil lamp, meeting the Devil at midnight to raise the dead.  You are writhing and roaring, the poisonous zuhama that flows through your veins a raging fire of wine.  Lanterns leak oily light of goblin green-white fire onto the cell walls, all granite and smeared with ichor, and you are speaking in tongues demonic and dreadful.  I take out a corpse key and unlock the door, and the floor is slick with your stains.  Your Cabernet eyes simmer like a witch on a pyre, and as I approach, I take a twisted delight in your suffering.  This is where you belong, caged in my mind, lunatic mad, my beast, my delightful toy.  We take turns tying each other up in bear traps and guillotines and rusty iron bindings, we are each other’s sacrifice, and whore ourselves out for the quickest fix.  Isn’t that how it is with demons?  As you are prowling, growling, licking your wounds with a tongue that would drive saints to sin (don’t you know the Devil gives the best head, I mean come on, look at how he sings), I sit cross legged and hold a staring contest with your mercurial acid pupils.  I flick my fingers through your blood pooled beneath me and my white cloak and white gown are stained.  I take out a pen and bid you near me, and then I write out the names of God on your soiled bandages, and you are shivering and crying, and I am triumphant over Satan.  There’s your wreckage of a heart, embodied in the form of a girl, and a weeping black void that holds the keys to eternity in your chest.  You are too far gone, eyes swirling with insanity, and you tear off my clothes as I raze my nails down your back and pick at your wounds.  We are bleeding together, the razors our hands, and we kiss with coppery mouths as we bite at each other’s lips.

To know God is to eat God, but at the end of the day, it’s you dead with your demons, in your own Hell for eternity, so why not make it fun?

 

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Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Briar

Hosanna, I whisper through bloody lips, I got pummeled
by the riptide of my sorrow again, sweet Rabboni, and
you are far away in some Heavenly Throne, down on earth,
it is cold, and midnight comes to Galilee, with the moon
like a sickle for separating the faithful from the chaff.
Can you hear me, sweet Yeshua? Up there in your starry
abode. I bathed in lavender and myrrh, and Joseph’s coat
of dreams carried my prayers in technicolor up to your
tender hands and rose garden of desires, what obedience
to the ways and means of nature, to hang suspended on a
crossroads between Heaven and Hell, I know well, Satan
calls me whore, but sweet Christ, I would leave all the
ravishings and depravity just to receive your mark on my
scarred brow, I have many bruises and burns these days,
being the forgotten disciple means they paint me wanton
and demonize your Magdalene, Watchtower of God, Zophael,
Watchman of El, I was always a spy, anyways, of swiftest
wing, and they got our story wrong, oh Who is Like God?

No one but You, Immaculate Heart of the Bleeding Rose.

And Then There Was One

I write from the vantage point of pain, so I can

chart my way back to the sweet land of living.

These crisscross scars are trail tracks to Heaven.

These raised brands signposts on Highway Hell.

Hitch a ride in hobo code on my neural pathway,

up the trunk of my spine from my womb to tomb.

For my brain is a graveyard blooming with life.

There are flowers neath these headstone shadows.

And for each idea that dies, every spark gone out.

The wind rustles coals and collies a new flame.

Heaven, Hell, Death, Birth – those are just masks

over the truth of Love, the truth of Kindness, so

fill my cup with wine, check my passport, I am

boarding a plane to Paradise, and one was left

behind.

 

Dancing in Ruins

Nineteen year old in white lace and satin gloves,
choking her own throat to bruise blossom hurricane –
the spiral twister comes from her screams, lifting
cattle and dead wood up in her agony, she clenches
her esophagus in a dead vice grip, starved of air,
because mental wards and curses of psychosis are raw
after a half-dozen years of black roses. I offer her
flowers, daisies and daffodils, and she smiles, lets
go of the death hold on her throat, the black rot on
her heart is kintsugi gold, shattered but now whole,
and her forefather weeps at her freedom, breaking
his ribs open to make her his Eve in pooled reflections
of puddles, lives pass, deaths come, births go, but
the girl is nine now, alone in a haunted movie theater,
and horror reels play on the screen, the Devil is in
a bowler hat and has red gall eyes – I bring light into
the darkness, promise her she will heal, and nine year
follows nineteen into flowering fields and forest ripe
with deer and rabbits, spring blossoms in golden curls,
and quarter century, nineteen, and nine dance in ruins.

From those ruins rises a phoenix of hope, and love heals.

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.)

Tainted Love

I love you, is that so horrible? So sick?

To dredge for pearls in your darkness.

To swallow your sins whole and digest
every ruinous torment you whore out.

I breathe black lung and diamonds of
shattered souls, spirit mica, ineffable.

Every night we meet is a Lourdes possession,
I’m a nun in latex and leather, crucifixes
peeling tattoos on my skin, holy? (Unwhole).

Two dozen rose years of riddles.

A throne of blood and bone.

Decay on my tongue, antimatter on the brain.

Kissing death is like swallowing coffee black,
his tongue is maggots and millipedes, vermin.

There are rats in his ribcage and moss on his skull.

When I lay in his arms, I count his vertebrae and
string his spine like pearls on a bone necklace.

Death is sweet, death is grand, death is sacred.

Smash the nonbelievers and those who shy from him.

I am Death’s Whore, Death’s Hierodule, Death’s Girl.

Master of all my intrusive thoughts, every bloody image
of ruin and vice and pleasure, not to feel is not death,
no, death is every memory simmered to ecstatic destruction.

They’ll be singing your name when the bombs fall.

When nuclear decay poisons the waters, your song
will play from haunted pianos, this is the End Times.

This is the Final Judgment, your pallid horse the
angry white mobs and police crushing skulls, oh Death,
Death Death, you will never escape your torment, and I
will remind you of your trespasses and cruelty forever.

Death Death Death, be my baby, cozy up to the blonde.

I’ve drunk your blood and deep-throated your venom.

You buried your heart in a pit in my breast.

VITRIOL, sweet Death, and let me in to the
rectifying stone, green lion, alchemical
bloody gold.