I keep getting caught up in being misses nice guy- because of the projection and responsibility I’ve assumed- but it’s all just another fantasy- and me and my delusional ideals and “human projects” I’m like a fucking spiritual landscaper or something -so demented-I know it’s just a dream- and it’s not any more real than your declarations of love or devotion- we’re both to blame- I feel like cinderella on steroids and it’s not cool- for any of us- midnight is all there is and so it’s one big headed loser pumpkin after another…and old maid clothes and only one fucking glass slipper- I’m lopsided and my sisters are ugly lazy bitches- the prince isn’t too bright- but at least he’s rich- I’m just saying, that’s how the story goes…you made me all up and I let you do it…coming back and quoting me on my blog like I’ve forgotten something I’ve said or that I lied. You’re the victim/character and I’m the megalomaniac- mentally incapacitated pick pocket gypsy whose barely holding onto her flabby outdated looks and yet still scouting for followers to build the dream empire of her impoverished sex pervert cult- ok- so PLAY ALONG. I should be careful not to become what I despise. Sucking hairy crumbs off the floor like my fat snorting female dog counterpart…just a loathsome dispositor of wishful thinking and alarming self sabotage. I can’t handle fakes and takers or germs that lead to illness and yet I’m eating off the floor…???…I always knew there was a catch to the implications of my duty. Dutiful and destitute, desperate and deeply damned- this secret intelligence stabs like a rusty knife and I’m still holding the cheese-barely hungry -and not really that interested anymore, maybe you don’t know what I mean…Is that you knocking Shiva Shiva Mahadeva?
A grumble in an empty stomach.
I stole something from you. No you can’t take it. I knew the first time I saw you that you were mine- or was it just that sweaty, sexy money getting hard in your pocket- I’m not a liar or a thief- those days were so long ago-it’s like trying to remember my hairstyle in preschool. Just make this easy on yourself and lay your tired head down on the cutting board -chopping block- whatever- and put your busy little hands behind your back. Get on your knees and stop looking around. Bow down before the one you serve, you’re going to get what you deserve. Stay out of my bedroom. Lick the blood off your plate. Fold your clothes. Don’t use my fork- pitchforks leave a mark -and this box is a locked door with no way out- like the traps they make for rats with a little piece of enticing cheese…tongues that won’t be bitten need to be cut off. Be careful what you wish for because the stairs go a long way down and we aren’t stopping to take a potty break mid-world -and you can think what you want about me and talk shit until your sun sinks- you know nothing about her. Her, whose hands guide feathers through silence, whose eyes churn butter from lesser pain. The sound of her tender feet, the pressure of her rose petal skin against the porcelain. The angel I drown in the bathroom sink. I killed her by holding her under my hellwater faucet. My hands are dirty with astral bugs from down under and so she locks her door and won’t let me in. And angel is another word for whoever touches me. And whore is another word for whoever turns me on- and hot is what I can’t touch- untouchable worm, crowded in doorways, T’s that you forgot to cross. It makes no difference if you make your sick bed now, it only took one time to murder the one you thought that you loved, so many names, so many cheap words kept on ice- lonely mind fucker….cracks in the floor, chapped leathery skin burning on sight, the sound of her indifferent void, no more soft fairy feet or rebel seeking laughter…no more poetry in the daily scriptures of my captivity.
Hare Krishna, its a box
Krishna, Krishna box box box.
It’s always the same, never nothing, never enough, never her, never you. It’s always a trap, never closed but forbidden, never taken but withheld, never what I really want…who am I looking for? My eyes are chipped like an old mirror and the images are broken like a bad steamy dream. I have bad dreams about watching you leave and then losing your number. I don’t lie -but I do make things up. Is there a difference? I don’t know…I control the stifled world, at least those in my pretty drinking places- because I’m bored and thirsty and I let you think I’m made of sweet water and fragile flowers under moonlight. You can’t break what’s already been broken dear Rama. The moon is a cave with demons living inside. It’s not a romance or a soft lit haven of grace. Like Frankenstein or Lord Brahma-a black crayon over my face makes no difference either little horned tripper…neither do the promises from the wine stained tongue of a drunken creator… I’m a mess with too many loose ends. I say Shiva because at least he’ll end the endless humping- but then again, probably not since he doesn’t seem to care or notice….wishful thinking and opportunity withheld as my last hopeful breath -I would die for him like any beautiful dreamer. Destroy this flimsy low grade world, dirty minds and ugly unions…Get it straight, straight up and still. Flat on your back. Face to the floor. Eat my feet. annihilate and stop. Stop me. That would be fun. I only say it because I know that you can’t and don’t dare try to get into that box- because locks symbolize enlightenment and at this point, you don’t want to know….believe me, it’s rare and only the mummy can tell you that time is passing time -itself wrapped in gauze- like a car passes fumes into its wake. The law is the law so do it my way and I’ll rub you raw all day. And at night I’ll tenderize the meat -and just before the last star leaves the sky, I’ll burn you to death in my fire. You can think I don’t know how, that I’m just a terrible tease and exaggerator…and maybe it’s true but I am also a dangerously hypnotic black hole nevertheless-I’ll pull you under it’s true, I don’t lose what I take- I was never meant to please or entice -only consume and swallow and end.
THE END. END THE END. LAUGHING AT THE GURGLES -AND SWALLOW -THE ENTIRE FRUIT -INCLUDING THE PIT WHO GREW IT. SEEDS- GET FURIOUS- BECOMING DEATH AGAIN -AND I CANT STOP ANYTHING BUT YOU. MAD WIRE THROUGH THE WITCH TREE. STOP BEING STUPID. I MADE THE WHOLE THING UP- LIKE A PERFECT WILD CURSING ANGEL WHO CARRIES THE ONLY TORCH EVER KNOWN. WHO LIGHTS THE SUN ONLY SOMETIMES -AND WHO SNUFFS THE MOON WHILE SHE LULLS YOU BACK TO THE BACK OF THE LINE. THE WIRE. SIT ON THE WIRE. I NEVER GO ANYWHERE- I JUST BLOW SMOKE AND MAKE MESSES THAT GET BIGGER EVERYTIME YOU GET SHAKY. ELECTRIFYING IS THE PORTENT OF THE COMING INTO ME.
Stop the madness. All of me, pieces of pure white noise. Shafts of imaginative men going nowhere but deeper into my wet wrath and never getting me from any angle ever. I WIN. It’s too bad for you that you think I’m insane because crazy people know a lot you can’t teach them. Hahaha! Gag the hot guy. Tie up the stag. It’s so easy…like those little toy stoves they make for young girls to learn how to cook- easy oven and it doesn’t even have to get that hot…it’s SO EASY. To cook, I mean-You.
Rip him limb from limb that annoying spider 🕷. My cats used to eat their legs one by one like it was a game. If I had wings, I’d want you to tear them off- I don’t need them. I don’t need anything but you. Hahaha. There I go again, I believe it’s called a control freak-plus you believe everything I say so how do you know it’s not true? Either way, I’m controlling this collision because you love me -and it hurts- and hurt is a feeling- and mostly you’re as numb as the nose of a skunk- so we’re off to a start that’s got no end- but surrender.
How long will this take. You’re as white as a ghost and you croak like a frog and you’re tied up in knots OVER me because you’re not UNDER me and I keep saying, “Shiva Shiva Mahadeva” because it’s the key to the locked door, stupid. It’s the only way in or out of the box….
and don’t get fluffed up like a pissed off bird. Crawl to me and beg for more. It’s master and servant. Yes it is. And it’s not my fault, but I did it on purpose. Am I perverse? Possibly, but I’m an angel -and angels can do anything they want without ever getting burned…BECAUSE I COME FROM HEAVEN AND FIRE IS GOD AND NO ONE IS HOTTER THAN I AM.