until we live forever


I had to eat chicken, that’s just the way it goes, then I was outside and it started raining on me, a black bird flew by and I couldn’t capture the moment so I searched every tree out in the rain looking for the one who I could hear but not see, so much is going on, this giving and taking. Gun shots go off and the air is loud with bombs and lonely women. Hiding mother, who is beyond this body, I know this is about me. Deep inside, how far must I go to find you? In the cold rain, all around me rocks in the way, cuts on my careless feet. I don’t normally feel much of my body when there’s no pain attached, it’s not a habit, just a remedy when my heart is elsewhere, outside of this hot, digesting black bird known as me. Going into the wounds takes me out into the trees, snapping moments of her light, reaping the evidence that all is her glory, blood, guts, feathers, broken teeth and failure. Reaping the light, I will find the black bird and take her picture. I will show her as emeralds and the sheen of the underworld, goddess undressing in clear daylight. Nobody looks her way because she’s too dangerous, being that what she reveals is only to hide what she conceals, the obvious reason for it all: Nobody can ever get enough of me, this addiction to the edge, this mouth. Clearly it must be you, looking through these downward facing eyes. Precious thorn, accept things as they are, accept yourself. Fear always gets in the way of transcendent experiences, sex, death, knowing more. It’s out there, beams of radiant light, searching for the flower. Dark birds swoop and leave secrets. Protector, I found my peace in weapons laid down before the throne of ecstasy, the deserving clan of disciples, the wolves without leashes, vibrant white bodies still warmed by my love. Nature spirit, fallen song, upon my head rests the symbol that lives forever. The symbol is a trident. Rest on me, lonely figure. Cold to the bone, hot blooded, undone all the reasons for you. I made this place fall, holy heaven that’s right. Into my arms, shining fang, perfectly sharp, kneel down, I know the way. Touch me perfectly, messed up, so bad. Divine equilibrium, the black bird took half of the sky, the old dog named wolf took half of the earth, the rest was up to me to find them in a way I could give to you, inside the wormhole, heart spiral, slowly moving into the huge face of everything. It’s you that’s so apparent, obviously everywhere that no one sees but the slipping man of time…and do you know the reason for it all, obvious ordinary dullness, you aren’t seeking the knower. I had to eat chicken, I don’t care about rules, ethics, morality, righteousness. I care about me, understanding you and what you need when the lights go out and we can only feel our way through the labyrinth of screens, night bird. A dog is always a wolf at heart, poor prisoners of our grief who we tie up and “get with nature” at our convenience. Dogs eat blood because they are alive. I’ll try anything once. Blood eater, pools of shimmering red, inside me, dark tides, nights as black as you with no camera. I ask, do you remember, because I think you must, do you remember me from before we started killing to find god? Before I peeled off your skin like a banana and ate you alive? It’s this light in my world that keeps changing, so I’m looking into the camera until everything looks good to me, when the time is just right. Charnel grounds, feet that never grow cold, walking on hot, you the feast for the fire. I could tie this all together in a nice tight package for you in only a few words if I wanted, so I wouldn’t sound distracted and you wouldn’t be confused by the deflecting nature of my erratic, light grasping mind. It’s all just a picture, a word, a feeling to me. I don’t remember names, nobody obviously has one. I remember the peculiar light that shined when I met you, I see everything in approaching light and encroaching shadow and that’s my memory of you, the footprint you made on my face to date. Looking back, I understand the phantasm of the bird and dog projection, it suits me because god is real just as I’ve described, I desire to repent from the compulsion to burn you up in my freedom, the delusion that you should be somewhere else. My other world is my trip, you can stay home, wandering the aisles or organizing shoes, applying for jobs, retracting unkind words. You can be as omniscient as the tree light, as fed as the tic I just pulled off my dog’s neck. Anemia is not only for vampires and bleeding women, it’s for everyone whose housing a tic. It’s your trip, I’ve had blood transfusions and I’ve never given myself to a tic, I mean “shit happens” but it’s all really just about demand and sexiness. I will climb every tree until I tap the dark bird who flew inside my camera this morning in the rain. It’s too early to tell if she’s alone but I doubt it. There’s something suspicious going on in this forest that surrounds me.


I spent all evening watching invisible women undress in the field under these blossoming trees, they were there. They even knew me and it seems everyone knows me better than I even know them. Feed me blood, take my hand, go down into my naked world. Underneath the invisible women, goddesses it seems, rocks become diamonds and the blood river is filled with gold slithery fish. Where am I without you, why wouldn’t you pick up the ax, the fish should be gutted, the chicken must lose it’s head, the rain could be radioactive, the bird could be satan, the flower could be a weed, the heart could be a trap, the head could be a monster who draws filthy pictures of tomorrow, this hole I clean daily could be the perfect home for you. I’m not particular, I look for savages and deities everywhere, breath by breath I suffocate what doesn’t suit my mood. I ignore the blood unless I’m hungry and my feet don’t hurt from the cutting unless it’s to my advantage, like “oh look at me I’m cut and hurting because I spent all night looking for you while you jilted me.” Jolted me back onto the line, electricity burns a hole in the soul of every pure body. Eating light, this divine whorehouse of opportunists and seductive entries takes up most of my time. The threads of her nature lead me to memories of you and how the myth was written in stone, how the mystical throbbing couldn’t last forever. After all, you believe in the weaving of tail to head. I believe in headless, tailless, consumption of blood. Dripping from sky and tree and bird, the parts of you I could never have. Wolf truly wild, pulse, steam, beams of her rapture, lightly touching the whore fang who is god. You just don’t get it, virgins are everywhere undressing, spreading promises of pure intoxicating white, they don’t have bodies though and that’s why you’re confused. Looking in all the wrong places, you missed my nubile promise, empty handed, heart still kicking, nothing touched but agony. Swan on the wind, appearing as black, blood appearing as my gesture, summary of the experience: I’m eating everything in sight, why can’t you love me anyway? I seek to repent from rules, conditions, demands, society, short things, veganism. Instead I look to be drunk on blood, everything red, eyes flashing, I see it all so quickly, missing you as if it matters. Only you can cut you. Only you can see you. Only you can want you more than life itself. Blood love, until it all turns to white. Don’t ever leave me without a mark, precious thorn is what she called me, protector of the virgin flower, knower of the black bird watching, healer of the wolf dog. Woman in the rain, goddess on demand. Friction leads to freedom, feed me with blood and guts and a stew of potent gods. I get whoever and whatever I want because all is attached to my strings…pulling thread by thread until you’re dead, speechless, cut up beneath me on the rocks. Colorless, pale, perfectly candid, blown up like a candle that knew me too well. Take a step back and look at her well lit face, every angle is you. Take a step closer and bite into her neck, drink the nectar of her madness, every orgasm is futile while bound. She’s up in the air, high on it all. Black strings, black bodies, eyes of light, heart blood throb. I will always need you to be dark like the star bird filled with blood and wolf. Trees beneath me, all of it touches the song. Virgin wound, healer of the death who would mock us all if I hadn’t stepped in and drank the night away, eating white chicken, there is still blood on the tip of the cell. I see you always as my Quixote, so quick on the draw. A bird in the air, black and explosive. God stem, open me to it all, take me in, out. OM bluntly, you could have had it all, me, the whip of agony, the rarest ecstasy and the steak. Pictures pictures pictures, naked ladies are not real. Only I AM REAL, and you can’t see me…yet. Bloodbath, bird cut up all over the floor, sticky feathers, little gods watching me kill, love child what more could you ask for, howling…trampled flowers, eyeless chaos, only me. Bless this broken skin and fill me with the haze of red only promised in the scriptures, if I can’t have you no one can. Images, me of divinity going down, stainless steel staples, miles of rupturing snake, swallowing cheap pain, stomach roaring, hot screams of wind, unheard inside, inside out, me on top of you, wandering, head tripping lust, nothing connected, snags on smooth skin, a lost puppy, hollow heaving, dry fuck.

I said NO. Start over. Rain on me. Hard love,

until we live forever.
Sharada Devi


6 thoughts on “until we live forever”

  1. Mind made madness covering the mother light, we only see desire. Her raw naked flame and the smoke going up outside the door of my yurt.

    My grandpa little joe said, “You white people are crazy because you live in square homes and the demons feed on you because they live in the corners of squares. We live in round houses like the birds, the energy goes around and spins you up into the sun hole in the center of the circle.”

    Feed your demons before they eat you up and all that’s left is a dancing skeleton in the rain. That black bird knows something, flash on the blue sky over and over again. Call down the mamos, they are just outside your open window, sing black bird sing.
    old man bodhi das aka bhagavandas

      1. you better fuck off, stop changing names.
        Stop stalking. I told you. PSYCHO. GO AWAY.
        and if you’re really “sunshine,” bad choice of names, stalkers choice, nothing personal.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *