injured warrior lambs

This morning I wrote this, thinking of myself. If I could make anything better, for me. If I could create a romance with my mediocrity maybe then my words would mean something- at least to me, at least in my head. And so I lied in bed imagining the beginning of today if I were in a romantic novel and something really profound and unexpected were about to happen.
 “An opulent gray covered the land. Softened by a silvery mist everything slept as if under a spell. She sat in a room upstairs looking down at the valley. Horses stood as still as trees and a secret wind that did not blow filled her heart with a wild silence. She watched the place she found herself with a far off look in her eyes. The ocean was not far away and in many ways the night still wept deep into these early morning hours. The lulling sound of distant waves held a confusing power yet she would not be swept away. She would be quiet. She would be more quiet and still than the new world around her. She would not dream of death as if it were her lover. There would be peace, somehow within her virulent body. This was her chance to disappear and reappear at will. Nobody would need to know her and she would not have to speak. She would float as a ghost vivid, over a place that meant nothing to her. She thought these things very precisely as she sat looking down at what seemed merely an echo designed to ensnare her. However, she had grown wise and nothing could stop her. “This is actually the beginning,” she thought toward the sheer trace of moon…morning could hear me and I knew it.”
Because I felt this when the end seems to be inevitably stuck on me, there was a slight rising from within, a hidden sunlight that warmed me inside my cold isolation. These memories of the past will not go, I must consider tomorrow, as today is another bardo where I am hunted by shadows hiding in corners I didn’t even know were there. I have been thinking about what I want. I want my words to matter. Most of all, more than anything I want my words to open wounds that won’t heal and skies that are closed. By clouds that should have left long ago. And these painful shroudings I find do best to disguise themselves in expectations. Not my own but those of others upon me. Love, in this place seems to be defined by the meeting of others expectations. And I have always known this isn’t love, but I have assumed my role and tried to ignore the tearing of layers. One by one of me and all those I have embodied. The past, it catches up and becomes a fresh past recreating the same wretched loss. You lose yourself in what they all wanted, expected. Then they disappear and you are just a nothing. Floating looking for a new job. A new candidate to ease the angst that you have made some fatal mistakes and sold your blood to the lowest bidder. I am talking to me. This is what I want. I say again to the legion of shadows that read me, the waves can’t always pull. There are the tides and these tides are turning. That is what I wrote this dark early morning. While Legend, curled on the edge of the bed, softly tugged at my heart. He talks in his sleep without knowing it. Sometimes he gets up still sleeping and searches for the big black snake. Last night I found out that a bright gun was being held in his face by an anonymous hand. I hear him because I sleep very lightly. He was saying, “oh shit, oh shit.” That’s when I found out someone was about to pull the trigger. So anyway, I can see that there are many shadows and mirrors – mostly mocking the dead. That there is probably nothing else but that – and the knocking. I write the words when I hear the knocking. The far away call from the biggest ocean mirror. There was a day when I would have called that my soul or even God. But honestly, now I am not sure. I pass the time just doing my best collaborating with the chaos. This would mean keeping notes of my daily responsibilities and listening to the forces as they reckon from within. You see, I know there is something big. Super huge going on inside and nobody needs to know. No one does, it’s just appearing as a lesser me. Slipping, sliding downward as all aging human women do. Especially women forced to lean on a man. Because I was raised in a cult that did not allow higher education, I was married at seventeen. It was my only way out. I do carry a curse and I cannot blame my parents for this. I like to think I am in control and that would include prior to my birth. Meaning yes, I chose this particular prison to decorate with my beautiful descriptions and impersonations of pain. Because the cult believed the earth would be destroyed any day and going to college would be as if you were not faithful to that reality. I was told God could read my heart and since I was only pretending to love the God I was taught about, I was terrified of being struck down at any moment. College was therefore one of the last things on my mind. Sex was. And that was one of the main reasons I knew I’d be struck, I was a slut like my mother had called me. Though a virgin my thoughts were impure. I was not thinking of the heavenly paradise or Jesus. I was thinking of boys and a warmer reachable love, or so I thought. Funny how the joke is always on me. So I pretended and didn’t realize how deep that pretending went. But for the knocking that told me what I didn’t know but held deep in the recesses of my psyche- but for the spreading of saddened legs, finally. Then the words sprung to life and began flowing all straight to you, whoever you are. I only know one thing. You aren’t that much different than me. And we all need a new morning that hears us and we all need to feel the urchin of rapturous love filling our bodies. This isn’t a dream but a requirement. I feel alone. Because the world has forgotten who we are. And I know it’s inside of me. That’s why I say the outside often must be destroyed to see what’s been seething inside these walls. And I thought about my choices just now – I chose the word seething for a reason. There is a fire inside that does matter. That is why I write this and why the outside should validate my actions. Any day now. This heart we hold and ignore. This heart we push onto others to heal makes a good point. This world one way or another, whether you like it or not – will show you who you are. This is both a paradox and a riddle. It is the saddest crime of all, truly. Committed by who? God in the making or just us striving to not be afraid? Anymore, of the loneliness and blackest of bruises. Don’t hurt me, but first hurt me so I know I’m hurt. Already. We came as injured warrior lambs, don’t you see?  Sharada Devi

Anima

I barely felt the knot or the needle. His eyes, his long black eye. I stood waiting for the door to open. Inside he looked, right through me as if I went on forever. His fist was on the knob and he twisted. Something broke, I looked away. The air from another room, rushed between us. I am used to being tied and poked. The space and breath was unbearable. I could be free. he could push right through. The threshold, to suffer the truth of my reaching. He was still breathing, heavy with clouds. Then he moved toward my mouth, bursting with anger. I am alone. emptying the bardo…

every morning I wake up at his funeral. and every night I go to bed, forgetting death. entering a flap-less realm. with the scheme of a songbird, lost. with the eyes of a bat, just a vampire. hungry to forget. one more time I cry in my sleep. for losing my grip, for letting him fall. asleep I ask myself where did he go, was I wrong to turn over. they say our past can haunt us and that it simultaneously makes us who we are. against our will, we work so hard. we marry and grow tired of pulling apart. and in this lullaby I can barely describe- let me just say, I did not bury or burn him. every morning I wake up to the sound of his last breath, a broken smile. inside me a jagged anger at a cloud slow passing, I cannot forget you, not here, not now. every night I let go and float with his anchor. a corpse floating in the night zigzagging toward another useless morning. I did not exist, not as what they all supposed. I was not how you saw me then, stooping- or now, digging. no. I have been slipping for a very long time between the two of us. dangling and watching the horizon. his eyes were the sunset of a god I no longer believed. and my life was over, yes it was. a long icy winter set in hatched by ghosts too cold to see. the funeral in the morning, my old looking at this mirror. a clump of flesh still trying to stay warm. voices. voices fall around me saying things like “hold on” and “blah blah blah” my head has cracked against this stone. nothing moves even as death ceases to change things. I can tell you how I got here. the other side where his voice has disappeared and his agony is only known by me. why agony they all would say, why the silence and pain. tomorrow I will rise again and he will be here with me in a new way, the same way since then. the death that I can’t rip out, starve or smother. then I will lie in the dark another night up against the invisible slope of my heartless mind and I will formulate plans to exorcise my mortality. I will plan to exhume the half baked body from beneath me and eat it’s hell raw. fuck it’s ghosts in the mind mouth. I am not a violent person, I am afraid of the phantoms that move up and down, the aisles and the halls while the song plays and everyone touches each other in solace. but in their eyes I see another story, another morning. the new one like mine. she is coming. and tonight, beneath the blankets the little breaths will wriggle and you won’t know the things crawling under your skin by tomorrow. so you’ll wake up thinking it’s me or you’re not simply an infested shell acting organized. I know where the truth waits in these transitory spaces where we feel it’s our right or destiny to choose. but it isn’t, he is so narrow thin in that box, I’ve imagined it. his hands over his heart, crossed. his fish eyes just beneath the  gray skin flaps- but it’s not true. I have smelled his skin burning. I have fell as ash day by day spread over the night in echos. you just can’t repeat me. my little bone in mouth savior. I did not ever want this wreck and abode. the cracked mirror I was born with and named and clung to. I think only of you who is my enemy. I think only of walls I can’t seem to smash, of you. Us, together wearing these rings. while everyone cries we are still. while they all think I’m wretched, I will find again that string of fresh sunlight and twist. Sharada Devi

 

back inside to the darkness

What landed this broken in my dark pocket? This is a gruesome cartoon. Something in me lies splattered in my hand and I’m not sure what. As I hold this broken thing in my hand. At a dark intersection I took it out and stared at her scarred face in the shadows. I am not quite sure what it means but it’s something. His song has stopped. Her reign has ended or been interrupted perhaps by a wrath that not even she can cross. But more I feel just a collapse that ends things by simply slipping away. The way roots and flowers no one saw disappear into dark waters as if some sort of mystery could be solved or resolved. But it’s not. Like the rest of the river that has no access. No man’s land may be my dark pocket. I am still perplexed by her face hidden and broken in me and by me. He had worn this around his neck. I dangled not knowing my fate. He surrenders not knowing- her, broken and a little more wretched, back to me. He said “the string was broke.” It’s very sad. It’s very sad. Every breath is a funeral for ghosts. Yet I must pretend and linger here haunting this place that goes on even in the rain of fresh tears….I reached out to him and he didn’t see me. I put her away, back inside to the darkness.  Sharada Devi

yellow bird don’t be mad be free

I’m simply staring at paper. How am I supposed to choose? A million swans both light and dark rise, wanting to be ridden by my mind. Which ride is mine? He asks me, “Do you see something on the paper?” I was silent but thought, “I see everything, what should I say?” It passes before your eyes. You must choose quickly. It is written on every wall- like this page that I should walk through…I could be inside. I could be the beauty I see as I write- barely able to catch it. It moves quickly and gets lost forever. Now I understand. I turned the page on which they were living. Now, you. I would hope to capture something, like your face- but I cannot move that fast. Am I a prisoner in my own dreamworld? I don’t like the place I created. It’s important to know this. He used to be the fallen angel, now he is God. He will swallow your flower. World of men…worship…worship…I got it. Satan hiding in the desert. Yes, message received. Talking makes it all flat so I can remember and interpret what is happening on the inside. Do you see a snake here? You should. Snakes live in the desert. I believe that the garden of Eden was an imaginary oasis in the desert of man. God did not create what was already here. God did not make us. What is obvious underneath has been a long time coming. It would have been too much of a commitment to another world. We have imagined God from a dry mind desert stream of hopeless despair. Oasis is a phenomena. God did not make us. Something else did. Too big to get behind. I will start by questioning the types of things that go on in the desert that drove me insane. Death by thirst. Sex with scorpions who kill themselves- which might as well be you. You know this place is dark. However hot and bright it seems by day. Dark oasis. Death inevitably permeates. I see he is different than me. I am wild inside. More like created to permanently seethe. Permanently seething as ordained. He says things like, “pretty flowers…it’s a good song.” I agree on the outside, calm and there. However, inside is the jungle oasis I pace. I know there is no real water here. I know it’s a make believe peace. I see the screaming and torment on this page…he seems peaceful. I told him I’m observing behavioral patterns. A lion stares through the words. I am in a controlled frenzy. It’s not real. What I am observing is why I feel this way and why he feels that way. The song ended between us. I think that’s why. My interpretation and reaction is more like the picture of indian  warriors he just showed me. “It’s kind of intense.” He said. I agree but could care less. He sensed this. My mind was somewhere else- Why the song ended. Why he sat wilted instead of taking the fake water. This is earth, no water is real. You don’t believe her real love. You want to die a fake death with fake flowers and dead indians everywhere? The song has left the air. I am now shifting gears to slow down the hands and faces that move our lives from behind. It was a desert until she ate the fruit. God didn’t make the garden, the woman did once the desert serpent told her to eat the fruit that could create- and so this illusion was first created on the inside and then into an oasis here with Satan. Just what I said last time. I believe we talked about it. I don’t see you bouncing off any walls. He said, “what walls?” A beautiful goddess and I are watching him now through a two way mirror like they use in prisons. He sits inside waiting to die. They gave him coloring pencils to keep him busy. I said, “do you think about the walls closing in?” He was softly humming to himself as he said, “no.”  I had to then wonder, does he really belong here for this crime or should we box him up somewhere else?  I didn’t say you were dead. I didn’t say it was a casket. It was only 1/2 ghost remember??? When I catch his face in secret moments he is not living here. How can you blame the doctor for giving the diagnosis for the condition the doctor created? This ghost boy is angry. He said, “that’s right.” I said, “but this is given by the doctor who came to visit you in your prison cell.” He didn’t know he was in prison or care. Remember my portrait that said, “let me out.” Ghost boy always leads to anger. Yellow bird is driven by the fuel of rage. You talk about direction. Rage- step 1) know you are in prison 2) CARE you are in prison. 3) I can never make it dark enough if you don’t care. It is the human condition. *you thought yellow bird lived at 1) no, that would be because we had mistakenly thought our freedom could come through another. 4) we realize the slight immensity of 3) and that no escape was possible through another. Rage then ensues. Misdirected rage. 5) breakdown phase -the result is relationship failure. Heart failure. When the heart stops the life stops. My eyes have yellow bird rage that completed the process successfully. The bird has left the cage. He says, “that’s right. I’m listening.” But I told him he was a prisoner long ago. He didn’t agree and if he did agree he mostly DIDNT CARE. Why does this person not care for this yellow bird? The anger should break the bars. For you, not hurt or blame- no freedom there.  Inside the cage- it isn’t out there….though you look look….reach reach… in moments he does not see me see him. He still doesn’t care…interesting…my story gets darker with time. Dark time is so absolute. It cannot lie to you. That’s where you have come by NOT CARING.  A benevolent goddess watches the steps 1-5- all is god’s grace. It gets louder and darker with time, the process- feels more and more like a prison. Projection perhaps? Considering my psychological work.  I am not in this picture. The prison you wish you could be in vs. he still sings however dark I hover. Only when it knows it is in a prison can the creative powers be unleashed. I cannot help him get in his cage daily. Yellow leaves my hand and mouth. The essence of yellow bird is my blessing…felt as a curse by the imprisoned…the blessing catches up like a bird with wings of light. Obviously faster than time. Perhaps his magical powers surpass even the prison of his body? Yellow bird can fly in and out of anyone’s eyes to reach another. Love frees and can be given as a key to be free. For humans are in a prison and we can fill it with heart or poison. The bird who is yellow covers the sky. My words are used for search and rescue. Freedom comes. Sharada Devi

crossing over the black moon

In a world, another world. After this one, past the line so hard to cross. I found myself. On the other side with the black moon looking back, I stood. I could not say goodbye to the things I carried and so I took them. Here, to the place no one ever goes. After this is over, is where I wait. Looking out beyond the things she can effect there is nothing. There is just a gripping fog. To cross the face of the moon you must become her. These are the rules. I have drawn a map of this journey. Most will resist the call to enter this realm to move beyond the allure. Most will trade every breath they have, give every drop of blood to avoid what must occur. I somehow was already inside, born within the gates of sorcery. It is a long story. Nobody believes me anyway. It’s inherent in the power of her seduction that we should stay inside the haze of her spell rather than embody what she does. In order to defeat this dark mirror that flashes we must become it.  That is only the beginning of hell. Hell because we did this. Hell because it is an impossible destination. However, I have gone and now, alone I stand on the other side looking back and forward. I can tell you in both pictures and words what such a destination appears to be. First, it is invisible. No one can touch you or find you no matter what you do. Second it is indescribable and unbelievable, meaning anything you say or do to be understood is useless. This curse indicates success, though it does not feel that way. At this point you may want to retreat back to familiar ground but the door behind you is locked for good. Don’t be afraid. For a long time you will be immobilized due to the vast emptiness that is not usual to humans. It is as if any movement at all makes no sense. You are powerless and far tinier than simply being small. You are nothing but the word nothing isn’t enough to say the truth anymore. Nothing is. Time will pass like you are floating and leaking and draining all at once. What is left of your body becomes foreign yet all you have is this. The things you brought that you could not let go of begin to evaporate as if you were a puddle. You can hold and contain nothing but this metaphysical fog. You realize this terrain is supernatural. You realize you were once merely a pixel that is now a dark drop of her face dissolving back into the essence that formed this moon realm. That there is a chaos so pure you have no defense. Words become spots then leave. Movements become blurs then spread. The center takes it all, a circle that never ceases is what you are inside. It is a drain moving into the void of the entire frame of experience including god. You should not be here. A human cannot know this and still exist. Yet you do. No one cares, you are now obsolete. You are now at the brink of unbreakable. Here there is a crossroads. I have told you very little since you do not truly care and so it does not really matter. This crossroads is where I wait, rather than leave. This is where I wait for you.  Very high up, higher than her I balance two polarized forces. You will not ever see me, you will have to do what I did to understand this precipice. Here I hold the secrets that are beyond mortal access. There will be a flash like a blinking of an eye. I am inside the speed of light. Here it is possible to enter the impossible. To exist between two opposing forces as the thing that no one ever saw as truly their own. I will be the exiled phantom and they will therefore call me the darkness of their lives. Behind the gravity that flung the gods from this very place I push and pull the streaming lights she disguises herself in as your desires and fears. Here there is dread of the unknown and danger of falling. Here there is nothing I can say to stop the fall. The world behind us is gone forever. Don’t look back. Here you will fall and you will never land. Because you will know this, you will lose your mind in order to survive. Once lost, the waiting begins. However nothing is coming. Nothing is going. Here I am miraculously unrecognizably recreated by the golden coil. Without any eggs to hatch. Without any mouths to feed….

 

it paralyzes me. I see her grab her throat in my head. The sky is red. My picture doesn’t matter. Diamonds fall from my mouth. Precious jewels fall to the dirt. Silence becomes me, treelike and still. He’s not crying, he has special powers to see dark snakes rising. The snake enter from below is all you need to know. He knows. One page could go on for eons. This, my story, is true…..(each dot is an eon btw)I am a demon teacher. Everyone knows it on the other side. All can come. It’s an open classroom. I am the demon teacher. It’s who I am. The ancestors will come and they will rise like a dark insurmountable wall. Do I need proof? Cats see in the dark. I am talking from the shadows. I am wearing the devil snake on my tail. Totally tame! Meow, meow, meow!  No one can change the truth. Even when they abandon me. I am never gone. Due to feline love from the stars. My mouth caught on fire. Dragon fierce. The devil came closer. I did not lose. How could I?  Have you seen Little lately? The enemy is everywhere on this paper! Haha. He is underneath the black moon always hunting, never free. There she is watching and waiting. From afar she appears as a red blotch, but it’s more. It’s her mouth. He feeds her blood kill. He can’t escape her. Not even in this picture. A wound covers my smile. I didn’t mean to draw this. The world is approaching and it’s big. Let me out. (of this night) I used to be a superhero. My hand doesn’t move as fast as my mind. My wings are not lifting me high enough. He is only half way here because she above is a ghost who has made you. 1/2 ghost, 1/2 boy. This is who I see before me. The implications of the ghost moon are far reaching. Higher than the god you thought of. Even you, superstar. He broke out of the blue place. The ghost boy next to me is laughing. The stars smash each other.  1) A thumb stepped on the world. Angrily he poked for his position. There wasn’t one, they lied. “Let me have something. Let me win! Respect, authority, fame.” 2) Pretty girls cannot stop the pain. 3) Somehow he knows this.  The neck holds wrath, his body pulses (from the 1,2,3 below)  Another She I saw lives at the end of a diamond shaped hallway. She also waits. There were corpses that rose from the dead the second her eyes touched their death.  There are lots of roses and bodies covered in the promise of death.  There you can go to her. Best to die first. If you don’t bring a promissory note, forget it. Gray river for you. Ghouls pop up, they are everywhere. I am a teacher that was taught in Hell. She is blood red. She lives in the middle of this moon. With a mouth that goes nowhere. She is supernatural. She emits noxious gases. You are here, dark moon. In the Gray Ghost world of ignoring fears and pushing them to the outside onto others. This is just the beginning. It’s bigger than I can write. (when crossing the black moon) you will be without a star or a candle or thought of a prayer. You don’t understand what it is. She is empty, euphoric, omniscient. Me, tipping over. The hair is a web, it’s invisible. “Nothing is in my soul” and she laughs. Are you sure now (you want this) sexy sexy $$$ (kills/devours man through his penis) their women go here, in the fog where they haunt the skies. She loves it. She considers their moaning music. I have been in the airplane of the dead and I saw the world below of gray twisted men and their willowy widow wives. She is behind them twisting their strings. There is a web. This web is not normal. The strands go back in time. There is one mommy of occult magic. She resides perfectly in the realm of human possibility. Humans spend their lives giving her blood. Black widow is her secret name. Penises deliver themselves to her. Bright penises she consumes. All happens within her creation while this spider woman who rules this world sits in the back (of the black moon invisible web) listening and waiting. Time does not effect her. My hands are too black. Nobody can break her spell. Nobody can break away from her magnetic sphere. Nobody can cross over the black moon and live to tell of it. I did this. How much sadness did I carry to do that? You must do it for others who are lost here. You can’t give your life anymore little people. I went there. I cried the tears for the people there. It’s not a nice place. To tell you what it is. You can’t come back alive. They don’t go because they can’t hear the crying of other hearts. I can hear it. This is why I did this and this is why I will be alone. (It isn’t an easy journey) because you will always believe she is your mother.  But you left the black moon world. “We cannot fear them.” (her seeds stored within us) little baby seeds we must kill them. Sad memories are all that is behind us. And even though the sun is shining- (after making it across the deathly black moon) the death of her mother is everywhere. She just sees “nothing.” She went over the moon world. Nobody goes here. There are others who will say they will be with you and they will be there for you, they won’t be. They will desert and betray you. You may think you did something wrong but you did not. It is a part of the journey. Don’t look back. Don’t give your life to her even if you love her. It’s only natural. You must lift your heads away from her. Her Face is everywhere. When you get to the top she will drop you and try to destroy you from the inside. Death will come. As dark as black could ever be. I saw everything. The sound of his wings (death) As the enemy approaches. The sound of death, the most beautiful sound you can imagine. His sound pulls you through the moon from below and when you hit the edge of the moon you know something about your soul but you can’t write it down. His power when he comes is equal to her seduction. She created the world of tears. Don’t give up. She is the mirror of the moon and she flashes everywhere.  How to survive the journey over the black moon. Inside many tears will fall. Move the shadows to go beyond even death. Move through her clouds as she casts them upon you. I remember a great god voice and he held my hand before I came to this world. “You won’t remember anything.” When he let go of my hand all he said is “you must go until you reach the end of time.” And I imagined that he would be there waiting because what else could I do? As the angel of death approaches the sound made his body. On the second the sound is heard- the same as blinking your eye- (one is death with eyes closed. With eyes opens) there he stands the voice I remember waiting for me. Could I ever reach him. Do you know how long it’s been? Humans have scars and sadness as they cross the moon. The difference is the exposure to light.  I want to pull the humans out. Do you know yearning? God must be somewhere but god isn’t here. I will appear as anything you need me to be. (Inside the moon) they get left to repeat patterns. It’s her place. She will decide for you. When you attempt escape she will fill you with torrents of suffering. She is me. The only friend. Because I know. To escape her you must become her. A condensed form and they will want you for the wrong reasons. You must cast them all away. At the intersection of sound- it’s what we saw, it’s what we wanted that we got. Hell vacation. When you go over the moon you must become her forever. It’s the only way. It’s the price you must pay. I am cursed to be her. Because I know. I can’t get to the end of time. Death wings death wings (as huge as the largest mountain you can imagine) the sound. “I do not want to fear you.” I said. Mother light is also her- flip side. Also inside. Death determines the side.  When you are her -once you cross her -you embody her supernatural darkness. You cast it. They all keep dying. I will therefore be called the darkness of their lives. This is the treachery of the moon and how to cross it. I became her not for the reasons she is her. She radiates what they want to ensnare them. I became her to free them. Love is eternal. That is what I learned. When you insist on being in darkness she will be there to give you what you want. Earth is where the heart is sent to grow. Baby born in hell, wake up! Baby must travel over the moon to reach the end of time. When the body dies, love goes eternal.  Sharada Devi

 

broken open by his hand and mouth

Heavy, I held what I could not change. Trying not to turn away from myself and the feelings it caused. His back, the back of his head. When someone is tired of someone else. I watch other people and wonder how they touch the things they cannot change. Like each other. Hand in hand silently walking down the street filled with them. What happens between them in the dark, where it always is. Festering waiting to burst. Like today. A cold fell from the sunny sky. Where can I go to leave this. Desperately I scrape the heat for answers.  I feel tired. I crawl inside this skin looking for a way out. My eyes feel soft. I don’t even know which one you are.  Under the blankets a body can feel like gold, a temporary shock of fortune. After that, the sun again can strike down cold and hard. Trapped in the light of another day, obeying. Dropping upon each other like quiet bombs. The saddest part of me lies here, together in this bed. Forsaken by god dreams and kisses. Broken open by his hand and mouth. Sharada Devi

 

his earth was my body this wrath shook from

The old man who doesn’t listen, because he can’t hear, carries a cane. I married him when I was young and I withered. This is a story about time. And the moon. About how my father died and I couldn’t save him. I have no education but survival. These threads I weave are from the past. Lifetime after lifetime. The ships we sank to be together. The stars are watching, even now as I shrivel. I was not a beautiful bride. I was thrown in a box filled with papers. My owner’s people poked at me as long as I let them. I am not an animal. Later he put a saddle on me although he was too old to ride. I began working and although I was speaking, inside I was silent. Seething like a slave who loves its master. I had no power otherwise. But for my world within, all was in crisis. He told me I was cryptic and that I was a dominatrix. He smeared my blood on pictures of dead gods. He grew silent when I cried. He stole my poetry and signed his name. Sending my love to his girls from before. He said my words didn’t belong to me. I wrote about a bird in God’s throat. He thought it was him so he sang to his people and I sat next to him blackened by shadows. Deafening bells filled the air, he was deaf. The world is blind. My body became heavy with the noises around me. We lived many places and I vacuumed them all. Sucking in anything that wasn’t clean. I became filthy, so filthy my own pain didn’t want me. I died on the hospital floor and I came back with stitches and staples that meant I was free. This story began with a picture of a dead man. This story hasn’t ended because I am stuck in it’s roots. I don’t know. I have no way of knowing. I feel through these pages towards the mist that covers my memories. My father was a killer and so I was too. The ships that took me, underwater and into the sky. I lay awake at night thinking about the things I took. When I lit the match I was the fire. I would myself have burnt this flesh, cut this arm or leg away. When his body would burn I vowed to the gods to throw myself inside. The days came and went the sun barely rising or setting. The moon took over underneath a table no one sees, where hands cross and pants come undone. The skirt rises there below the waist. This long sad horizon of life without the hallucinogen. The pixie dust, the dancing fairy stardust, the cold hard rotten bones. His hand was in mine, gnarled tree branch claws hanging on. I was the words inside the dirt hiding and making everything green. Yes me, his earth was my body this wrath shook from.  Sharada Devi

when the blade falls and god steps aside

The edge of the blade does not care about death the way I do not care about God. These bodies touch like the wind touching space. My eyes melt like the sun into the earth. An invisible species dances in my head. To the sound, the sound of wind chimes hanging from this tree. I move. We move. Sharp and precise around the hole we will fall in. Inhaling each other, tasting for blood. A morning lost without you. The night comes and he hangs his head. She is simply how  I speak of blades. He is the thing I effortlessly cut. When the moon falls their bodies glide, across the bed of water into the middle of the forest. The silver screen where he found her, light. The corner of a room where she said, “don’t go.” Little sparks of magic, drops of blood. I worship his breath. I don’t belong here. Possessed by a luminous fire too bright to see. His eyes become the holes she enters. I am on the inside. God was just the ink. A dark color enters from the floor and lies down between us. He doesn’t have a body, just a pulse. A dark color moves into me. I was in his head, he couldn’t get me out. We were lost without the doubt we felt for each other. We were alone without the isolation our bodies caused. I imagine where we might go now, tongue groping for itself in another. How we might say the words again, that I love you. That none of this matters. How we might try to pray to the dark body again. I believe I have found what I’m looking for. The nothing you wear around your finger. I believe you have covered my face with your hand. This forever we feel as the forest engulfs us is when the blade falls and God steps aside.  Sharada Devi