hyper high on the black exhaust of my master


A little dying fish flipping on his back can’t breath. One day I thought I died and a pale man walked up to me and said, “Would you like to go for a ride?” “Underwater?” I asked.

After that,

I told those voices to fuck off and then they wrote “CROWN” on the top of my head. “Is this some sort of joke?” I said….my fish, he’s flipping backward…he’s gone totally insane…so anyway, I shot that dog in the head last night, not likely headed to that rainbow bridge place all the dog doctors promise either. It’s hard, getting a handle on sin and redemption, little screaming midget germs with their notebooks watching everything, keeping track of my movement on paper…

how many times can I say goodbye, that is my spiritual life, waving death. It hurts and I hurt back. How many times can I die in this body, that is me wearing out my redemption, it cuts and I cut back. The boat came and it sank long ago…I have drown in a million secrets. How many times have I said I love you and where did you go when you left, my draining fear of you under water without me, unlocked inside the magic pendant?  Your face began to disappear as I began to die again. I only forgot you for awhile and I’m sorry. Is there anything that doesn’t hurt, is there any worn out pain, the pain that grows the garden? You should take me seriously you shouldn’t read my words as if I were the lonely one. I wear you secretly around my invisible neck. I wear you because you need me, anyway I’d like to think so, it’s easier than saying goodbye. It’s easier than shooting you in the head and having to clean it all up…blood just doesn’t disappear and neither does sound. Thoughts and words last forever, and that’s likely what hell is, all those thoughts and sounds we thought we dumped onto others…or into the so called silence. No such thing as silence, only black matter, and you’ll not want to visit her anytime soon, trust me. Vacuum cleaner of the universe, out of sight out of mind is my motto. I’m tired of blow jobs anyway, no offense it’s just kind of boring, like this earth realm, is this really the best I can do? That’s where all my low self esteem comes in, like, what did I do so bad to end up here? Then I start thinking, then I start panicking, then BD says you need a toke, relax…then I scream, “I hate pot and all you fucked up humans!”…and then I start cleaning or rearranging or writing to you. You’re almost like the combo between a teddy bear and a punching bag…but isn’t it true? I’m so desperate it’s pitiful, all the things I reveal…and yet, it’s thrilling to me because I’m a flasher. When I said that the other day, I wasn’t kidding- I’ve had flashing issues my whole life, I can’t seem to stop, ask my mom. She’s like “Michelle go put some underwear on.” And then dresses were just banned all together…and then my refusal to wear “bras” which I NEVER will and all this nonsense about “see thru clothing” like my one boyfriend was such a control freak he made me go out into the sunlight to check if my clothes were see through – it got bad- because I met him at a place I worked where my boss would make me wash the glass doors as the sun streamed in and he and all his friends would watch …I figured it out after awhile and sure I was offended, but maybe I wasn’t, maybe it’s what I want! What? To be “seen.” Right, one more time, not like that, haha. It’s a soul’s cry for help I’m sure…but so far, help isn’t coming so I continue to act out, death quickly approaching, me on a string dangling, nothing below but fire and teeth…

What did any of it mean? We were all just looking for love. This elusive idea, love…that destroys us and we never quite understand where it went or who it was. The old person lies aching in the corner, joints swollen with grief, the eternal loss… as I sit in the shadow of him, watching and wondering where we’ve all gone. I’ll try to stay upbeat, I’ll try to smile as I die, I’ll try to make meaning out of useless surges of light. But then again, why should I bother? I don’t eat flesh, I just said that to scare you. I eat nothing, because nothing is all there is. Not love, not “love is all there is” No, but nothing, nothing is all there is…and in the nothing I yearned for something, the closeness in your eyes, the ending of words, the rage in the carcass, looking for me despite all the flesh in the way, these horrible bodies, this horrible space between us…and will it ever go away, I think not. Because we come here to hurt ourselves vividly, distinctly. It’s morbid that we talk about healing when all we really want is hurting. I get it, I don’t know I’m alive. I gave up, many tears, many years ago. I gave up on gurus, I gave up on trying, I gave up on fixing myself as I was. I just stopped listening to the clock who lies anyway, pressures us always knowing we don’t stand a chance. I make everyone laugh all the time. I’m a comedian. I hear comedians are the saddest people of all. Ironic. My words come from talking tears, the possession is death who rapes me daily. I have no innocence, no purity only his face waiting behind my eyes. You should stay away from me, I’m actually the grim reaper truly, he jumped in while I was dying. And when I came down from the ceiling where she always floats waiting, he decided to stay, in me, my body. I am not a goddess, not even close, no matter how much Bhagavan Das tries to convince you…he’s just sorry for me, he knows I’m a laboring slave is all, and he thinks nobody sees or appreciates me so he tries to sell me, like a car, to younger men and anyone who might hear, and he’s sweet and forgiving of my suicide wishes and demonic insanity. He’s as still as glass while I break him. So I am the one in a black cape with my eyes covered, I am the one with the scythe, I am the cold dark one you all run from. I make honey out of words when I’m hungry. And I’m not special, just honest beyond belief, in all my delusion. And because I laugh for you and because I make everyone laugh to disguise what I’m really doing, which is cold blooded killing, then everyone thinks my life is a party and I’m some bitch on a high horse chewing up God like he owes me…

and who knows maybe I am, maybe it’s all true. I am sure I fall under one of the twelve moons. Don’t say you’ll pray for me either, it’s stupid.

I would have wrote part 33 today but I don’t feel like disciplining myself to stay on topic. I can do anything btw, you know I’m good at it all, but I despise being forced -well not always- forced to do anything 9-5. I’d rather be dead and well, I kind of already am. And also, not a pity party, just my ordinary thoughts rising and falling much like a frustrated penis, I guess you could say…

I just can’t stop. I know this. I’m too hyper high on the black exhaust of my master.

Sharada Devi

5 thoughts on “hyper high on the black exhaust of my master”

  1. I’ve watched them burn. I’ve grinded their bones. I’ve sifted through the dust. And packed them in boxes. After you’re dead You have no name, no head. So why waste your time When there is nothing in line Except a box of dust. A box of dust is what you become. There is no number one. When everyone is the same.

    1. I think it’s all the dusty emotions
      and thoughts that didn’t turn to ash…
      light body sweet one.

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