like death and the butterfly

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I’m backed up against the force of him the way a river hits the sun from afar. I’ve erased words from the page out of anger at God. What am I suppose to do with this. I’m not worried about payback or the seven deadly sins. I’m not hiding the sun just because I’m a cloud. I feed the creatures below my table and I don’t even know their name. I feel him walking up the hill with the sadness that precedes every journey. I say goodbye before I say good morning because I know how it goes. It goes where I left it, which was a long time ago. All you have is your story. Shut the fuck up and disappear. And I don’t mean hide in God’s magic words, I mean go. Down wherever you hid from yourself.  I told a corpse just a minute ago- one that was about to get cremated soon- “it’s not your fault.” He didn’t believe me. I get strange electrical pain down the sides of my body at night due to the upheaval, it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Not dreams, not shallow breathing. My hope is in not letting go. My fear is in holding on. My pain is in remembering. My love is in utter collapse. It’s all I have to watch anymore. Spiders and saints unraveling. Crawling toward me. Uphill. Smashed on the wall. Blood I can’t rub away. Guts that remind me of him. God, the forgotten one. And I don’t mean he’s holy or written down or I’m clean and pure, wings unwithered. No. It’s cold and it’s lucid waiting to destroy the remains. Before the sound of the incinerator starts and after the last breath is taken. My sickness is never physical although it results in manifestation. It’s the damned ripping out of the fooled, between worlds I recognize. You know what they call it, I don’t have to say it again. It’s the way we talk to each other in our sleep. This corpse was holding on to himself in a sad way. I said, “what can I do?” He said, “wash over me river.” The sun smiled from very far away. Of course I only ever imagined my anger because I love him. Bodiless and rare. The exotic dream birds fly very high in my dreams. The sound of beautiful voices live there too. Some are born. Some are not. Can I survive without him. Can I write another word without the alphabet. Can I ruin this habitat of leaches and worms underneath me sucking out my heart. Crying for a mother, any mother. I think I can. Kill them all. It’s the way the dark hits the floor all night long effortlessly falling yet floating in me. That’s how I plan to do it. When I talk about God I doubt you understand me. Feel the pain of my doubt and emptiness. I always wanted God to love me. Nobody ever came. I was open, it’s been tragic. Like a bird hanging upside down the way bats do. Like a blind eye which is meant to see. But it doesn’t matter now because he’s gone, merely an echo of light hitting water that never moves backwards. I am rising because I fall so hard. In love, toward death, inside of the burn between them. Compulsively I tear at my scabs. Open this wound and let him out. The corpse knows because I told him. “Stop kissing his fucking forehead, praying to his mother and give him the truth. It’s over.” There’s no third eye about it, not yet for him. They don’t care. We all hang waiting and it hurts until we’re dead and the proof is our old body is never recovered. You’re dead like this moonbeam. Hanging over my bed as I write. A strange fictional blue shadow light. It’s not a moonbeam is what I’m saying it’s an iPhone screen destroying my eyes. It’s not that you’re dead it’s this ugly noise ringing in my ears after the real words have left. I do not mean a mantra. I mean everything floating and sinking that you deny. So I’ll keep quiet. Write in fragments you can dissect and feel empowered by. Because I don’t matter. All I hear is my stomach growling like a wild beast since I left the holy shit hole of India. I find current conditions on earth specifically the ones circulating around images like god and poison like religion to be the embodiment of the antichrist. What does it mean to me. It means I get sick when I eat it or feed it to others. In any form. It’s over, you had your chance. Stop touching me. I’m sorry you’re old. So old you’re useless and desperate for followers. But not me. Just not me. I have nowhere to go. I will lose again and give up one more time. I will destroy your clinging life. I will cause reckless pain without even trying. I apologize in advance that you knew me. That time and space didn’t change a thing. Didn’t transport anyone to heaven via India. I’m a face for this ruin. I hope you become me. I focus on giving up as my life is a spiral of descent apparently roots are not formed from the bottom up my terrified angel. We have only just begun…

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and you think something is wrong or that I need healing. But there is nothing wrong. There is only this bright sword cutting a head from a body. The chemtrails of America telling the sky we’ve forgotten. The difference between sinning and praying does not always exist. I don’t care ok. I’m moving because that’s what I do. Into whatever is before me. Including underneath, inside and over me. Being everywhere I am assuming the worst as well. Meaning I am strong like a black breath taken at midnight when everyone has died and forgotten they once knew. How to fly. There is no end my wild eyed bird, not to this jungle heat. Not to this heavenly weighted body…angels are everywhere just like God listens. It’s dark in this room but it’s not quiet. I hear creaking and groaning in all directions. There are probably things under my bed hoping I’ll touch them. It’s a lot of chaos that’s not in my best interest. Nobody benefits in a re-hash but the pope. I’m not a victim of seduction or a believer in social order. You can take this wherever you want to. It makes no difference at all. I told him…”I won’t stroke a ghost,” and that’s the bottom line. Then I blew and the wind stopped. What it was- was scary. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The line fell is what I’m saying, the boredom ended. The rest is not reachable by words…like death and the butterfly. Sharada Devi

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21 thoughts on “like death and the butterfly”

  1. I thought I need you guys in a jacked up way. Now, I don’t need the weirdo trip. Over it. Don’t want to be that guy. Don’t want to be in a crazy daze seeking stranger kicks. Yes, I was into something else before . I don’t want to suck on anyone, now.. I was lost in that way. I do want to connect but, not like it’s the most important pedastol obsession self defeating complex. I see my narcissism. I have hope. Yes, I got the fleeting romance looking to trade in for truth. I quit meat, I already feel better. I had a dream about squishing a hamster on accident and put on a big cry show and woke up feeling weird about creatures for the first half of the day. Feeling good and hoping it’s not just the espresso express mo colors r nice and music is pretty denying the madness of the big city.
    https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bP2izzO9wO4

      1. I know that you’re still my friend somewhere, somehow. I know the kind of things I should be doing to get better.

        1. Oh it’s you! “A contradiction glimpsing realness.” Pablo, of course you know…it all works out…the truth is in your heart, wherever you are…I’m always here my sweet soulful friend ♥️ even inside ♥️
          means…inescapably forever friends☀️

        1. Pablo is this you? Why keep changing names and identities? I know you think you’ve figured things out…how to see through
          the glare of bright fear. But we all need
          someone to love and to cherish…leading to
          you. There is everything right about wanting
          to be near spiritual friends and support. It takes superior strength and wisdom to see this and it takes a divine calling to feel this. Your longing is not a weakness to be conquered but a blessing. Why don’t you come to Mounr Shasta? You’re not far…neither am I. Sunshine. Why should the summer end?
          We’ve only just begun…

          1. not sure what to call myself… wasn’t trying to make anyone think I wasn’t Pablo.. I want to come! What about sep trip though? Not sure what funds will be possible..I have to get this expensive thing so my car passes smog by July. likely though!
            Because summer isn’t summer?

          2. Because summer is always summer.
            Nothing ever changes on top, it
            only seems to be moving…but inside
            down below, the source is volcano
            and you know what to call you,
            God is the fire of the sun.
            Light. Mother is who we see…
            she is the endless summer.
            Light.

            Not a body but a flame.

    1. I thought I woke up, but I could not move. Perhaps I was dead. It smelled like dish washing detergent when I opened my mouth, so perhaps it was not me. I was the mouse that you killed last night, on the deck. You screamed, got a hammer…and crushed me. And now…this is happening. I can’t blame you, because you were only doing what you had to do. Right? I guess you were afraid of me. No matter what you do, though, you can really never kill me. I woke up as a panther…your blood will be mine.

      1. I thought I was dead too. It’s weird how this keeps happening. We caught a rat in a cage that prayed with us and blessed us before he ran to his new kingdom in the river’s bush. There was no death at all,
        Free rat, like free bird. That’s what we called it. He was gorgeous and wise. He had an entire group he led. We miss him and I remember his little rat palm blessing me.
        God is God for sure I thought as his beady brown eyes glistened pure soul. Deathless is that moment our eyes met…

      1. I’m saying, don’t need them in an unhealthy way. Assess why you’re here and see if it’s messed up motivation. Like a, “ if only I can get to them, THEN I will be fixed or THEN on the path to be fixed.”

  2. ….because today is dark and I feel crazy, my bottom is up and the story is up side down. Write to the left and down an upward spiral then squared off in triangular motion. How the hell did that happen? Heaven’s to fucking Betsy, downward dog gets fucked in the ass. “Sorry,” he says, “I was only trying to move you.” No apologies necessary. Why did you ask me anyway? It’s not even the right question. How can you get the wrong number when the answers in the telephone book of discovery. Why do they even bother printing them anymore? Everything is on line. On line. On line. Line…in life balancing act…acting like it is real for promotion only. Marketing ourselves until death us do part. Hardly believable are these vows we take…what is it anyway? It is made up so we can feel secure. Vowing commitment…. To WHAT? Cling to one another even though you sink with that ship ALONE. For REAL. I can’t even get off the soap box long enough to listen to YOUR sorry ass. Yup, you heard me. Not MY weakness. I do what I do, and I don’t really care what YOU think. Everyone has something to say say say. Agree, disagree, compliment to be complimented, always expecting that stroke of ego MANIAC of going nowhere. Shift gears in holy waters, bow to stern and watch the boom. Prepare to come about! Fast, pulling sails in, ride on full spinicker….Jibe HO! Matie, don’t pull your panty hose up just yet, we have more coming. Attractions are like flowers ready to bloom.
    Have you met that cross eyed skitzophrenic devil yet? He holds hands with the angels of deceit. They think they know it all. But we are just like them …burying our dreams in other people’s pain. We love to see their failure because we then know we are not alone. We smile and carry on smugly.
    We reach the top when we hit rock bottom…burying ourselves in the pain we thought was real. Mind pain creates addicts. NOTHING can touch us because we are not real, to begin with, right? Keep telling yourself that it all matters and you will never make it out.
    Did you get your milk today? Bread is in the box and your newspaper is on the porch. Dog barking in the bathroom and the cat is up the chimney. NOW what the fuck are you going to do? Beggars lie in their own shit because it is easier than wiping their ass. They stink and want you to know that they are better than you because they OWN their own shit. Yup.
    Pray away, my friend, do your chanting, and bowing. Believe it all, because you have to…otherwise what else is there? You have looked in every corner, every nook and cranie and every hidden spot you can imagine. It will all come down when it comes down.
    You have to turn yourself inside out, upside down left to write down the bones. Bones no longer tied to gether by tendons or muscles. No blood, no veins, no heart to pump life. I often picture my skeleton sitting here typing. I see my jaw bone and my felangies pecking away. Sometimes I just picture my eyes here….rolling around in my skeleton head…. The glue that keeps us together…what is it anyway. Why do we not just disperse…all our atoms and molecules that reside with our body….if I could truly let go…would it all just evaporate…and spew into the universe?
    I caught the couch interrupting the coffee table, while the pillows were sleeping. This is way too much to figure out.
    So…THIS is what it is like to be me. Today…a day when nothing makes sense AT ALL. Don’t have a clue….I’m locked and loaded in a corner….that phone better not ring again.

    1. It could ring and you could not listen.
      What a flow the river is roaring!
      You are like a bomb, a firecracker and
      a baby deer all at once.
      It’s impossible I know…
      little destroying bambi with the moon howling in her heart…

  3. this world
    continuously breeding need
    wheedles and coaxes
    eludes, deludes and excludes.
    a twisted puzzle with jagged turn jolts
    now tender and sweet
    now quick switch to hell-bent on misconceived bewilderment
    with the flick of an unseen flint
    Poof…
    warm turns to ice 9
    eternal winter
    snow flurried
    nicely buried
    6 feet under
    dial it up another notch
    click…
    perpetual sun lit fire
    smoldering away on a 24 hour death pyre.
    any chance of safe and secure
    or just an avalanche of illusion and confusion
    constancy of pleasure vs pain raining all around
    praying for a quenching drop to touch your yearning cheek.
    helter -skelter shelter of seclusion
    provisional chrysalis giving way to wing-ed immortality
    or life after life sentence without parole.
    a fat black spider lurking in the corner
    has whorled it’s silent silken web
    tightly and tighter still
    precariously dangling
    from the apathetic windowsill
    spun out
    desperately seeking a fool proof space to lie in wait
    mistaking sly darkness for the great escape

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