The Dark Talks…

Hiding in the shadows, watching me everywhere I go, It’s you. It’s only you. It’s always been you.

I don’t really sleep. I just lay in the dark waiting for you. You’ve already come twice this week.
I’m not sure if you know that you’re doing it.
Breathing down my neck, invisible and dangerous. I never know what could happen and so I wait like a cat with my eyes open wide. But late last night- you came to my bed -and you leaned over me -and you searched my eyes deeply – then, with a slight smile (which was unusual) you melted into my body.

Forever, at last.

Such total love misunderstood.
But I always knew you-and so I wait for more.

People think I don’t know what you’re about to do to us all, but I do know- and I can’t wait to see you again. Since the last time that I died -two years ago- I love only you- and I know where to find you -and who carries your seed.

It wasn’t a hospital -and it wasn’t an illness or condition- it was a supernatural shamanic attack- and they tried to kill me -because they know I’m your Queen -and they know the damage I can do- and they know that you spread water under my feet everywhere that I walk.

If it wasn’t for you, I’d have nothing to do. But you gave me a seat in your heaven. Your heaven in the island below. The underworld haven of so many bad girls, but I’m not bad at all- and that’s why you picked me. Yes, I’m talking to you and it’s not about me. And my seat came with a crown and so does yours. And my feet are covered in gold and pearls and my crown has 3 Ravens that sit watching everyone -and you are with me

-and this bed is rocking.

So I lay there waiting because you are my redeemer -and nobody knows -but you -how to slice me -or how to put me together- We all came here wanting the same thing- and so we have to do the dirty deed- and we have to get fired-

And I hung from the meat hook in the back of the room- and it all bled out –
who she could ever have been- whatever was- is gone- and so the stories I tell- are like myths or like fables- yes, I remember her but she isn’t there.

And I had a dream and we were all laughing – laughing to death -at the joke -and at how much fun we’ve given each other. My exotic and brilliant mother. My stealth and gorgeous father. My genius and brooding brother. Even you, you were in that dream laughing too.

We all know what’s next don’t we?

Pinnacles and pageants and angry men who think I tease pricks- well I don’t have a lot of time to waste on teasing. I mostly like doing. And a prize? Yes, a big prize -I’ve given myself to you.

I hope you can find me in the same way that I’ve found you -because like I said before, he’s coming and maybe even again tonight. Will you be ready to see his silver gray eyes?

“Bow deep and low to the black bitch of the black hole.” That’s what Bhagavan Das says- and he really does know best -because there’s no reaching the bottom -and mommy never dies -and you can’t stop loving me even if you try.

He came to me and He made the offer He said, “listen, shaman, there are two ways we can go. I can be on top, or you can.”

And then He got out his dagger -and He got out His silver gray eyes- and He opened his big mouth -and He basically swallowed me. I went down hard and fast and She was watching from the top of the room. I didn’t come back for about six months-

and when I did, I didn’t matter anymore. And I commanded the birds in the sky -and I heard the fish in the sea -and I made storms and sanctuaries -and I bled the moon dry.

Dry of the past – of the forlorn little maiden that stumbles us all.

From naive virgin to immaculate Queen. From frolicking maiden to master mistress.

That’s what He’ll do to you deep in the night.

The Dark Talks…

… and the sound of the trees ushering Him down the long driveway straight into me. He’s quiet and light on His feet -and so I don’t always hear Him. Unless He rides in on His horse and I hear the panting tongue of the Man I always loved.

He lets me eat Him over and over again and He’s never scared or mad.

Because He’s the Love that Takes Us Home.

I was born from Him. I will go with Him. I will die into Him until the end of time.

So before you call me a slut or man hater, before you say. “What has become of Her blog” stop for a minute and hear what I’m saying because:

you’re all fucking each other anyway- so you might as well get it right.

…and for those of you who think you aren’t…I’ll be waiting when you arrive at His Gates. I’ll be waiting with a throne and a castle. I’ll be waiting with heaven and hell. I’ll be waiting with the sacred and the profane.

I’ll be waiting to hug you forever.
Sharada Devi

send your man my name

I’m a man eater. Do you know what that is?
Have you ever heard of a Venus fly trap?
That’s right. It works like a charm. Hungry hungry hippo- did you ever play that game as a child because we did. Do men even eat? I doubt it. Sure they stuff their faces with glue and grime and television shows- sure they fill up really hard and fast when they can- (it’s pathetic really) -when it’s easy- when she’s looking for a place to sit and rock- ride the wild horse, hunt the wolf- so funny though ladies and only we know don’t we- that their aren’t any left! No seats in the house!
Of course we don’t say a word and we pretend and we play- yes, it’s a mind game John, and trust me,
you aren’t winning! Come home to mommy big boy! Home is where the heart is- cereal with milk and everything! Plus we don’t complain when there’s a “little problem” do we?  No, we stay thin to make them feel big and then we slam them against the wall in our own special way-Don’t we? Honestly, I don’t think we’re helping them at all- putting on man clothes and taking you for a kiddy ride -because from what I hear, none of you have eaten in a very long time (some maybe never) and you’re really too skinny and you’re gaunt and you’re hollow-

but he didn’t notice did he? (why are you with him?) And it’s a good thing – because he likes thin women and I just hope your breasts are the right size. Does he love you like you dreamed of. No. Not even close.
I know he does not. And I never told anyone they couldn’t eat me- they just aren’t able to because they still don’t have teeth and they wouldn’t know a piece of meat if you rubbed it in their face. I’m not a man hater. I’m a man eater. Do you know what that is? Have you ever heard of a Venus fly trap? That’s me sexy sister. And next to me is my web where I wrap up the left overs for another time. I never told him he couldn’t
make the cut. I never told him he is rough and can’t ride. I never told him anything to stop him from spinning on the thread he hangs from.

Called Me.

My mom was a spider. I learned everything from Her. What was she supposed to do? Be a soldier? Salute the man? Yea, right.
So many men and so little time.

My flower is big too.

And men, no, not all- because I love men the most-(women can be catty and hen like)-don’t get all ruffled guys -and start fluffing your feathers.
You big, hot, angry peacocks- so bright and SO soft.
Yes soft and I’m stroking..

And I’m still looking for God.

Who wouldn’t want to have sex with God?
Who wouldn’t want to disappear into my face?
Who wouldn’t want to take the plunge?

Angry, angry men. Hot, spinning women. I love men the most- they never get caught in the small talk. I really love men, played with boys all my life. Is it our fault that we learned how to work them?

Paul I love you -and don’t expect me to act spiritual. It doesn’t mean anything, the word without Her joy. She’s coming for you and your mother knew it. I know it too and you’re like my best friend.

It’s hot in the closet and maybe two can fit.
Vacuum cleaner and a man. A man with a BIG broom. (no little brooms allowed-nothing personal)

The point I’m making really is, why don’t you help clean the house? She’s planting her flower everywhere in fantasies that have nothing to do with you. I know she’s a mad women and I told Her She’s a Manson Girl. She sent a picture to me with Her tongue sticking out. So long and red and so pointed-perfectly phallic- bigger than any man could ever show me-(He’s really missing out Megan)
and I said, “She’s got it all figured out” She said to me, “off with their heads!”

When should we start? Which head? Where’s the vacuum?

And He’s not enough for you Tara Devi.

The quickest draw in the west. I too, carry a gun.
So don’t think that two isn’t better than one.

my friends and my foes my beloved pet beast,
don’t get stuck in the glue eating factory.
Don’t get lost in the guest room. Don’t get angry at me. I know you all -and I’m only calling it like I see it. I gave it away- the directions to get here- and maybe you thought that I lived somewhere else. Maybe you think I’m crying for comfort. Maybe you think I’m insane.

I LOVE YOU SO MUCH for playing this game.

Recipes are boring.

I’m channeling the Gods.

The Gods who want to fuck us.

Calling from the holy land, we’ve come so far to leave this little broom behind …and they gave me the flower and…

trust me, they meant for me to use it.

Get in or get out. I’m a man eater and theirs only one flavor. You.

Hot Ladies for sale,
(and most of us seem to be)

send your Man my face and it won’t be long now.
send your Man my face and He’ll be wetting the bed.

Send your Man my name.
Just do it.

Sharada Devi

I love everything about you

walking back to the place we played, the trees we climbed, the castles we made..I can still smell the ocean churning. The fires on the empty beach, the coconut oil in my hair. walking backwards- and he was with his dog swimming in the sea.

We had nowhere else to go.

walking back to the forts we made, blankets between the beds, flashlights and I always told scary stories. I made my brother be my sister and dressed him in pink and painted his nails,
I put little pigtails in his hair and changed his name. He promised to be my sister (except when he went to school) I rode my bike with a basket and my little dog sat riding.

She was my real mother and Mandy was her name.

We climbed trees and started rivaling gangs. We fought and we found abandoned fields and haunted houses. We climb to the top of the world in the yards darkened by trees-overgrown and spookily quiet-and I’d write the scariest stories I could think of (for an 8 year old). I wante to read and so I learned when I was 4. I thought that Braveheart was a beautiful name for my dog but her name was already Mandy when I got her.
I was worried about how long we’d be together. I figured dogs lived to be 100 and so she only had 98 years left- and I’d walk in circles in the backyard wondering what I was going to do without her in 98 years. I would sit at the table and write love poems to my mother and tie the pages together with little strings.

Her arms always smelled so good.

I was afraid of my father because he was gone too late many nights. He was like a sky that you never knew when the lightening would strike. He’d get drunk and listen to The Doors and Led Zeppelin because it reminded him of Vietnam. I couldn’t look in his eyes because I didn’t want him to know that I couldn’t bear his pain -and I didn’t know how take it from him. He only told me he loved me when he was drunk. I wrote him poems about Vietnam when I was little and he would read them and cry- he didn’t know how I knew.

We were both killers- me and him.

I had dreams of Vietnam and I wrote all about them. We were all afraid of my Dad even though he never hit us- except for the time he beat me with a paint stick when I was 15 because he thought I had had sex- which I hadn’t. I cried for days. I was cut and bruised.

He should have went to jail.

When my dad got pulled over for speeding I cried “please don’t take my daddy away” to that policemen- I guess since he was hardly ever around- and he’d carry me on his shoulders when I was 2 to see the shark frozen in ice at sea world. He’d take me for rides on the back of his Harley. I couldn’t really find him after that. I’d walk up to strangers and say

‘”Daddy is that you?”
My mom was so embarrassed.

I got married when I was still 17. He was 27. He really did a number on me. I think I loved him. I knew we would be married the moment I saw him. Sometimes we just know these things- but it didn’t last. After 4 years I left. We stayed friends and he gave me drugs for the first time.

I became invincible

….and it’s a good thing because I couldn’t handle being a stripper and the alcohol wasn’t enough. Men staring at me for hours. Giving me lots of money. Table dances. It was a topless bar in a trendy Los Angeles neighborhood. Nothing more. I was very sexy- plus I’m a good dancer. It was a good job- I was rich and made my own hours. When the Russian Mafia bought the bar I quit -whenever men would turn their head as I walked by I would he very upset. This lasted for years-I’m over it now- It wasn’t a liberating occupation. I was naked and invisible. It’s bad if they look and it’s even worse if they don’t isn’t it?

Still, I would rather be turned inside out with no money.- than to be invisible for all the world to see.

And I know what it’s like -and I’m playing a game…and I know you see-because I’m showing you.

and how do you plan on getting back home?

Where is your heart now- Is it with me and my stuffed animals in bed every night so afraid of the man in the closet? And I couldn’t close my eyes in the shower until I was 25 because at my grandmas house they were watching psycho and they thought I was asleep but
I saw him kill her…

I saw him kill her. I saw him kill her.

I saw a lot of things I never told anybody.
I’ll tell you now though -and you can tell me.

Blood everywhere and little lost pieces of me floating to the surface of today- so that I can tell you -that we matter- aeverything we did matters-
how you made your own lunch for school. how my brother chased my dads car down the street
crying, “take me with you!” But my dad never did

I love my brother but he hates me. He had s little stuffed blue dog called bluey. He told me he used to be a midget and had a wife and two children. He told me their names and everything. My mom made us stop talking about the past-she said we were scaring her.

She scared us. I took care of her.

I took care of them all. I counciled my mom.
I cooked and ironed for my dad and I always hugged my scared little brother. He slept with a bat in his bed when he knew my dad might get drunk. He was a little man who wet his bed.

Will you really always be there?

Because a lot has gone down since we were last together.

Us, the riders on the storm.

I love everything about you.

My love didn’t miss a beat or a crevice or a crumb of everything you left me.

Death didn’t count back then and fences were so easy to climb.

It seemed like summer was forever.
It seemed like I was always new.

here I am
coming home to you,

Sharada Devi


Everything is empty. Everyone is empty. Everything is just gone.

The temples are cemeteries -and all the saints dying -and I’m just a pyre -an ash and embers filled -final birthday fire -for the dead and the burning.

Set me on fire, I don’t care, there’s nothing left inside. But nobody does -because nobody can -and its just not enough to keep me interested anymore -I burn everything I look at-and I just can’t stop….starting fires and instigating heat..

it’s a friction addiction I’m told.

I saw a bird in the tree looking for a mouse for dinner-but the ground was dry- and so the rodents were all gone-all eaten up one way or another -It’s not a harvest day here on my speck of earth. Nothing to kill, nothing to do…

I need more heat.

The weaving and threading of making something- a nest for wasps-or a way to stay warm- is also a loss.
I’m cold no matter how hot we burn.

The snow will start to fall soon and cover us all anyway.

There was no one inside and the lock was too rusty to open. So, yes, I’m sad that it’s all gone and everyone tried -but they’re dying now and the best days are behind us. The sun was setting without even a color.

How can I love you if you don’t get under the blankets?
How can I see you when it’s always so dark?

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s been blindfolded.

I walked around the Deity expecting to be blessed but I only heard the whistle of the wind dying down deeper in the valley.

“He doesn’t live here anymore” they said.

And so I walked over to the edge of the cliff and thought about a million things at once,

“Am I really a bird? Probably not.”

So I though about dying and the red thread He put around my neck on New Year’s Eve and I thought,

“That wouldn’t be bad at all. Maybe it doesn’t matter and I might as well fall.”

But then the ground shook a little- just loud enough for me to hear that deep underneath Her She’s about to explode, fire under the belly, hot nectar from the moon- boiling in the cauldron down below…

“but I thought nobody heard me?”
I said out loud to no one.

Absolutely no one.

And the weeds have been allowed to grow and the tattered flags were blowing, I was bluish cold despite the red heat rapture of Her Soul-stirring the pot-while She walks sadly barefoot upon the earth.

“There’s just nobody here anymore. What am I supposed to do? I’m just like my aunt, saving mangey dogs who don’t even love me- not love me-no, only love their food and their blankets”

I guess it doesn’t matter. What do they know?

Stupid worthless dogs.

“I’m just like the spring flower who grew up in a field all alone. Getting old Dying before anyone could pick Her in bloom – and put Her in water- and brighten your eyes -and bring love to your heart.”

No opportunity. No junction.


And I saw the paint chipping and I spun all the prayer wheels.

“I don’t really know if these prayers work. I wonder if anyone feels them?”

No rapture. No solace. Probably not.

And then the birds even started getting cold and the road was so dusty. I opened the car door and got inside. “It’s so quiet in the car, it’s just like temple”

No Gods. No Ecstasy. I expect nothing from you.

Nobody loves the smile in Her eyes. She’s just another woman with nowhere to go. Nobody
hears Her calling to the Furies. Where have you gone, dangerous lady of the night?


No curses. Its not nice.

No. Just sit and shred papers. All the notes in your head. All the lists and all the restrictions.
Because it looks like nobody will be here on time for dinner anyway.

It’s a ghost town out there where My Cowboy used to ride.

And I remember the horse that He rode.

(No you don’t. YES, I DO)

“Take me with you. Far away from here where the fire isn’t something I have to make myself. Where the Men are the blood that I wear.”

But no longer do I go into the shadow that brought you to me…

because she’s gone, over the edge of forever.

Naked and bright like a star with no rider.

My heart has a hole that I just can’t fill,
honestly, God pokes too hard.

Where I fell from Him, is where I bow to you.
In my own special way, down on my knees…

bruised and bleeding…

happily red.

and I learned to use to His weapon because He promised me love…

I mastered Him actually.

and I never listen unless I’m the one talking,
So that’s a problem of course…

just another kiss. just another mouth. just another touch of His mane against my heart.

wild stallion in the open field
you saw the only flower.

so I’m getting on,
don’t fight me.

Sharada Devi

straight into my flaming arms

Guys, I think it’s called performance anxiety.
Paralysis of the greater gain in exchange for the
lesser good. No one moves- but rather, just lays there softly day dreaming, fantasizing about senseless pokes- jabbing at non-reality. No pressure. No pain. Nothing to gain. It’s all good, safe and easy….

but you’re deluded. you’re completely insane.
you don’t even have a body. you’ve only got a
head that’s bouncing off the screen…

Because She really IS there watching you watch Her. She isn’t just the creak in a rocking chair or a black ghost in a white room. She is the face of you, that you just can’t rise to meet. The truth is, Her reality is a stalker of what you know you really won’t ever do, which is actually get it up long enough to make a difference. (If you know what I mean) And it’s just not good enough to flirt with blow up dolls or angry men. It’s just not good enough to hide behind words you could never say out loud.

It’s called:

“I’m afraid, mommy. Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m a good girl. Tell me I’m your man.
Let me think I’m WAY bigger than I really am. How can I be like you mommy? I want you to think about me mommy. Mommy , mommy, mommy, hot mommy I need to wean myself off of you, but I’m addicted to your scary nipple mommy….”

Sad. Sad. Sad, guys. Truly haunting.

You know when it happens to you…It’s a deep gut retching connection…

You see someone who REALLY sees you -and it’s only then, that we know that nobody else has ever seen us at all.

And this person now is too powerful.

Who REALLY hears us- and we realize that nobody else has ever heard us at all.

And this person now has too much power over us.

Who REALLY loves us in a way that is beyond our ability to return.

We can’t explain it. We can’t love back. We’re addicted to the slaughter of our means. We’re addicted to our disappearance into them.
We talk and we testify, we exclaim and we exalt –

but guys, the truth is the truth, love hurts…and you’re scared.

It’s called performance anxiety guys.

(and we need to work it out)

Basically, when push comes to shove, you’ve got nothing to shove.

Little paddling baby feet running straight back to the crib. “Mommy was so mean to me She told me to go away until I’m a man…Mommy said She won’t cuddle me forever and let me hurt myself. Mommy said, “don’t suffocate your daughter.”

Bad bad mommy….

Get it up and I mean it.

It’s for you, not for me.

Otherwise, just go. Go off on a new cyber date. Find another digital face. Stare at another sexy screen. Write to a new fantasy face.

LIVE AND IN PERSON- because this is personal. And you know what you’re doing…

it’s a cold hard chair you sit in. It’s a worn out and tired keyboard. It’s a lonely bed. It’s a waste of Her possibilities….

You sell your life short and come to Her crying:
“Please help me. You’re the only one who can.”

But you don’t really want help- or Her love -or wicked passion at all, you want a new nipple- one that might be softer or more fruitful -more obliging than the last.

I don’t nurse, guys. Get it up or go.

“But mommy, You said you would never leave us and you’ll save us forever mommy…”

My beautiful, sweet baby bird, you came to the wrong mommy’s nest- because my birds can fly.

My babies get it up fast-and I push them over the edge- and they fly -or they die. Let’s put it this way, I don’t have many babies around with love songs left to sing.

Performance anxiety?
Afraid of heaven’s pearly gates?
Afraid of hell’s eyes?
So you sit and stare at pictures of me? Why?

Don’t make claims to Her you can’t deliver.
Don’t leave Him high and dry.
Don’t waste another night hugging your pillow.
Stop writing me love songs that you can’t sing.

Everything is for you my beloved.
My Goddess. My God. My bad little boy.
There is no beating around the bush.
We start at the bottom and we push.
We push hard and we don’t stop.
We break through into Her Diamond Light.

Only then can we tell Her,
“I love you”

Because let’s face it. Talk is cheap. What’s the point of sending out wedding invitations if you aren’t even getting married?

And I’m as guilty as you are because I know better and I participate in this dream affair
because you have nowhere else to go…
but to me.

Straight into my flaming arms.

But if you really are intent and determined.
If you really do have magic hands.
If all you do is think of me.
If you know the secret seven words.
You know I’ll be here to untie you.

But since none of that’s true with any of you.
(You know who you are, big talkers…)
I don’t do half way.

Half way: that would be the path of Sky Humpers (refer to previous post) -and so you need to find someone else to do your training wheels-groove with. Someone else to practice on. I don’t need another timid chihuahua.

Panthers and Pythons boys and girls.
not pants pulled half down.

It’s a tight spot we’re in called Jungle Fever.
vines and swamps and animal sounds.
dark movement under the trees.
something is in my bed with me.

I can’t move. I’m stiff. I can’t move.

I’m lying.

Finally, you tell the truth.

Coming in claws and hot jungle nights.
Coming in kisses and red spider bites.
Coming through. Coming through.
Coming through you….

I love you. I made you. I dropped you.
I broke you.

my sacred heart. my lightening rod.
because you think about me, I’m able to get inside of your head. flash and strike. but I’m still not dead.

Whose face are you holding anyway?
Whose gaze sustains the toy?

It’s called performance anxiety guys,
and it’s a sin.

Sharada Devi

Hasten To The Wild Jilt

It was only a reminder
of what had to go
loose pockets, empty jars
tail of the alligator
cheeks worn slowly
from the hooks
I bore you slowly
I made your face
Tic tock

The whole guru talk tends to get irritating.
What does anyone know? What do I know?
Maybe a Guru is just another version of the nipple. We keep sucking and just can’t let go.
Maybe it’s good, it’s hard to tell when and how the milk -or the attraction will be there- is the problem.

Only the blind bat knows where the black sky goes. Only the mistress can cure His heart. It’s impossible not to see the Guru as mommy. Or, not to love God as daddy, now that gets tricky doesn’t it? Feeling sexy and confused little princess?

Exactly what I’ve been trying to reveal all along.
I think you know where this is going…

the slime before the foreplay.
the heat before the crime.
the forbidden love isn’t dainty at all.
It isn’t a pretty -romance novel style.

This is dog on dog. So get used to it.

That’s why you fight all the time.
That’s why he sits with his head drooping down at the dinner table shoveling in food while you sit there smiling. Your kids doing her math and you feel like everything’s just fine.

Fine and combustible.

It’s the flammable war. Why men are angry and violent and why women despise them with every hot wiggle of the hip, with every flaming red lip, with every ounce of smoldering cleavage they’ve got.

Honestly, it’s because they aren’t getting it on properly. And it’s nobody’s fault but yours.
We’re pulling out weapons in the wrong war.
We’re contradicting ourselves…because the Sex Pain is overshadowing our ability for pleasure,
for peace, for thinking straight at all….

This is the most spiritual thing we can ever do together-go into the place we really aren’t supposed to go. Because you know that we need to, you can deny it -but it won’t change a thing…and we can think of nothing else but how to get inside….

how to make it go our way. How to organize the plate. How to fix our hair or lose weight.
Animals don’t care! It’s all just scent and adjustment. A little more open heat.

It gets really intense and bewildering flirting with all these taboos in our lives, never quite close enough to touch the velvet or to feel the silk. Never deep enough to reach the ending or the beginning.

Where can I take you and what can I do for you?

What do you want from me? A whip or a hug?
Maybe She’s going to be the one who does it Her way. I don’t think you even thought about how far down together we can go.

You know it’s bottomless once you get in…
you won’t ever touch the spot you dream of…
oh, but you’ll keep trying and some call that devotion or ecstasy but nothing and nobody’s coming but the Dream.

Is She enough? Is She in there-cutting you in two? Is He man enough to launch God’s rocket straight into hell,
ignite and burn -way down under? But aren’t we shooting for heaven? is it God really down there? Pain. Bliss. What is it?
Does God have a rifle? Does She eat men for lunch?

I don’t know about you, but these are questions I ask myself.

I know a lot of people who are together but not really. They’re actually apart but have a business plan that holds the “union” in tact. They sleep in separate rooms and talk politely or sometimes she screams while he rolls his eyes. They say it’s because they need “space” they say it’s because they’re beyond the dirty deed. They say it’s because they just don’t feel it. They live separate lives emotionally and the friction is fully contained like leftovers in the freezer (nobody is ever going to eat them so just throw it away)
She believes he is faithful, like that matters?
He believes she’ll stay “safe mommy” forever.
Many have children in the middle of this scheme.
Boys and girls who know more than you think about the problem between mom and dad. They’ll have theirs too- leftovers-
down the line. How do we know? because WE’RE THEM -opening the freezer- looking for yesterday’s food…

This is the calling, the feeding and the purging of our lives. The authentic merging.

To see and feel Sex Pain.

It’s a worse torture to not enter the darkened room at all. We must do it -and we must go where others will not. Break down the door. Break out the whip. Put a leash on him down on all fours. It doesn’t really matter as long as you are sincere. As long as it means something to you. I’m not advocating any wayward fetish, or encouraging sexual misconduct (however you see that)
because seeing goes a long way into the process of total unraveling of identification and condemnation.

Excuses mean nothing. Neither does insecurity and uncertainty.

I know the guy is limp and she’s lifeless.

I know nobody is interested in each other anymore.

of all your lies and turmoil. All the reasons you don’t know why.

And this is the reason why:

You closed up shop before anyone even got to
come inside and take a look around. Full length mirrors and a drawer full of change. You had the right idea all along.

So who and what is this Guru?

The Great One who holds the dream of leaving all this filth behind us?

Of making bad things fade and making death a happy place?

Or is it just you hiding in the corner looking at someone else on your screen?

Death and Sex are in your eyes and nowhere else. Pain. Wreckage. Casualties. Redemption. It’s the salvage yard. It’s the vultures in the sky circling and swooping.

That’s what I see in your bedroom eyes.

The Sky Burial of my love.

But since they’ve called it quits and are politely co-existing, the air conditioner still hums in the corner and nobody sweats or ever gets uncomfortable. It’s a perfectly livable, sterile cemetery- with a roof and mowed lawn-disguised as the new mom and dad- with the new baby- that isn’t just you all over again…

We’re doing it different this time. I know the waters black. Whose underneath you keeping you floating? Whose nibbling your toe this time?
I could be eaten by something big and sharp.
I could be right where I started.
I could be a pervert hooked on the rats.
I could be a rainbow beneath you.

Night Owl, you could be my midnight star.

We could be creation without shame and fear.
We could finally know each other- but instead we settle for the moonless night. The black blanket of the Guru. The whore of Babylon. A game of strip tease poker.

You asked for it though didn’t you? A voyeur in a whorehouse watching Her dance and play around you like you were someone big and dangerous. A housewife cutting up the moon, chewing off her foot, doing ANYTHING but you….

“The Guru is God you fool!”
yells a voice from the bedroom.

Now all we need to do is find out who God is…

and let’s STOP FAKING IT -if you know what I mean- because- THATS NOT GOD FOR SURE!


Hunted by Death
blades of light
heart ticking thin
I walk upon the surface
forest grass
deep thick pain
over grown and tangled
His fingers from the earth
I cling to love uncertain
in the fast throat throb
heart bursting wide
into sweet sounds
and syrup wine
drink me
heaving, dripping…
clots of locusts
diffuse the moaning
until She turns around
and bites the beast
She eats the surface
of his laughing face.

And- before He falls -snuffed
and wasted -He opens His dark arms
calling Her His Foment Queen.

“Hasten to the wild jilt.”

Where do I stop and you begin?

It’s all for the end so no one know…

and we probably shouldn’t wait to find out.

Sharada Devi

every time I die

I have like 10 snakes around my neck. I have 1,000 arms. I have weapons and I have love.
I never let you down even though you never got up. You were the one I was draining into me.
The sun never set the day I came to find you
and we sat face to face with a thick wall of glass between us. I knew you couldn’t hear me but I sat there talking anyway, because of my vow, because of my tears. Talking to you about getting out. You sat in your plastic chair playing with a pen, sometimes looking at the clock on the wall- (I guess dinner was at 6 or something) You sat in the eighth seat from the left and because of this, I knew you wouldn’t understand the problem…the reason for my weapons and tears…the reason I’ve been crying for over a million years.

Someone asked a 92 year old great Rimpoche,

“I am lost and suffering in samsara how can I find a guru?”

He replied,

“You go to this person and you prostrate yourself before them. Then you say,

You are my only hope in this life and all future lives. I beg you to accept me as your disciple.

Then you do everything this person says.”

Rimpoche sat there glowing and smiling. He knows nobody ever listens. His tears are the nectar of his heart.


I’ve been bloody from prostrating. I’ve been dead from exhaustion. I almost froze to death in the icy caves and I’ve been burned to ashes from the fire of my devotion. My love for my Guru is so all consuming and intense it has almost killed me over and over again. I would go anywhere and do anything to be near Him. I’ve begged for forgiveness and I’ve given my life to my Guru.
Every time I die, His eyes become the sky. Over and over again I come back and I remember and I never stop searching for Him. Over and Over again I walk through the valley of the shadow of death because I promised Him that I would find you and take you to where He is. This is my only reason for breathing or writing or being cruel.
This is my only reason for touching you and holding out my hand. This is my only reason for coming back to Earth so many times.

His will is my life and my life is His Hand.

Nobody understands this tunnel at all. You will come out the other side. What awaits you there
depends on your journey from one side to the other. It’s not- no big deal- She’s huge. She’s a hungry leviathan. You can’t ride Her. You can’t tame Her. Only the strongest end up in the right place on the other side. The wrong place is filled with plastic chairs and thick glass walls. It’s filled with self mutilation, compulsion, addiction and monotony. It’s filled with the illusion of suffering coming from somewhere else besides you….
That parallel dimension isn’t somewhere else. It’s here and it’s why I’m writing.

Heart to heart collision. the aching heart with nowhere left to go. Beating like a machine without Him. Thumping like a
fearful bird against a caged wall
when She isn’t there….

I’m so lonesome, I could cry.
Because I love you I will die.

You came to me wounded and hungry with ghosts in your eyes.
What am I supposed to do if you won’t listen?

Do you know where you are while passing the time as if this is just another boring day?

Why are you waiting? What are you waiting for?
No one else is coming for you.

This is it.

The most important gifts can only be given in person. It’s a physical thing. Tantra is a secret that has no explanation, only transmission.
It’s the wordless holy claus that no one dares to think or speak about and they’re memorizing everything left and right and speculating and philosophizing and theorizing but they’ll never find Her like that.
She’s a buzz in your ear. She’s the venom of the snake. She’s the singe of the flame. She’s the sting of the wasp. You need to be there in person. Period. No astral dating. No comradeship. No equal terms. Not fair at all.

She’s only stirring and She wants your heart and soul entirely.

I’ve realized I need to be more literal. Everyone seems confused by my message. It’s been that I was struck by lightening when I was 20 and I’ve never been the same. My clothes burned my skin split open and all my muscles ached for weeks. She struck me down hard. She electrocuted me and it wasn’t very nice.

You just don’t understand Her at all.

…and every time I die, His eyes become the sky.
Because of Her search for me.

Sharada Devi