wham bam thank you ma’am

Cold knuckles
a white hand in the way
only this between me and you
song of the siren
because you left me
I spun my veins around your soul
calling wayward, through,
nothing solid
inside the water
drudging the depths
of the spiraling sea
where I bring you forever
across swamps of heaven and hell
always back to me…

the light…

in reversal again and seeing sideways,
nothing has ever kept us apart…

my father was a soldier who ended up a killer that died by his own hand. This wasn’t all he was, but for now, it was all that mattered…deep in the whorehouse torn between squirming guts and a psychedelic torture, blood between his teeth, and a pit inside his stomach…it is he who takes everything, chewing and then eaten alive, walking through a poison jungle with me, a ticking time bomb. Ticks in my hair sucking, lice in my eyes hiding, cracks inside the only pieces left of two. Pull the trigger, just one time and let go of the burden. Sit on top of me, I’m not dangerous, I’m barely lethal until you twist. My mouth is filled with sordid wounds and words sealing fate through incantation, it’s all because he was my father. And like the sun without a sky or other stars, I feed his legacy without suspicion. I spell it out for you in riches laced with quelling sounds and feasts of forbidden love mixed with filth. We can’t have our bodies anyway, we can’t have our mound of red roses high in the air, none of it becomes the throne until I sit on top of you, meaning we’re alive until the gift of me is given, even as a leper inside of her room where the oriental girl waits to blow out your brains, even then we trade the living for the dead, since you aren’t really a soldier and you know it…laughter splattered on the walls, time in disarray, cover me with the floor, it doesn’t change a thing… beneath it all, rests her certain black eyes as the only ground we have, as anything left real, to stand on, I’m telling you, you don’t mean a thing…

so how will you ever leave me? I’m telling you there is no such thing as “wham bam thank you ma’am” there is only the knife in the kitchen drawer with my name written on its handle. A weapon of discovery waits in every hand that holds a gesture, almost as your picture on my wall, a crooked mudra, and just like this, I know all my angles. I’m addicted to you as a backward moving object pulling you forward. I’m a white line on the mirror going nowhere. I’m his perfect daughter who knows that supply is based on demand…

my father came to me and all he had was a broken picture. There isn’t an answer to anything. And although I see him in everything, as you, there is still a piece I cannot find without death finding her way into this black house…

the house of her light.

The light we call the dark is opening the window…let me in as air and noise, kiss my breath and then roll over…I’ll take you over like
the trees whip the sky, look down into
me, a downward facing bird with wings made of darkened glass, look up into me, slivered feathers hiding scars, I rise in the wind holding razors, cutting strings, kites made of skin and heavy rainbows, floating inside of me always loose and incredibly wild. You are shiny like blue ice and you are sinking like a yellow streak…so I carry you up into my house because I’m looking for him, his daughter inside of a credible frame…under the water, beneath the ground you think you stand on…

my father was a killer who thought he was a soldier and he murdered himself just for me. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the forest I live in, deep in the jungle, winding the plot…in my house of light…I wouldn’t expect you to believe that the truth of this family is under swampy waters, rotting like dead fish, no eyes only sockets, laughing syllables, hung on a wall that nobody sees…written in a words that nobody reads, sung in sounds that nobody hears…I once said there were stars and a sky, but there isn’t, there isn’t really a big picture of anyone…and there is no ground, only me in imaginary segments, like a large swollen worm moving beneath you…the ceiling of collaboration collapsing into my vacuous gaze…

maybe you remember when the claws clutch the prey and everything stops…or maybe you remember the hook through your throat… eye into eye, seeing is believing. Do you remember me now? I do it my way,

that’s how we met.

“My father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

Sharada Devi

2 thoughts on “wham bam thank you ma’am”

  1. The war is never over, there is just so much money to make killing people. It’s the big business in Kali yuga. This is the time we live in, when the bull of dharma stands on one leg only. Blood all over the floor of the temple as the old indian grandma’s sit against the wall in there white saris.
    Their eyes are so full of light as their
    lips kiss the mantra words they eat as sound bites of another universe. We are all on the alter as goat heads dripping life away as the butter lamp flickers on top of our heads. Her golden tongue comes out of her mouth like a highway of grid locked cars in L.A. getting out of hell for thanksgiving day. Was it worth all the pain for the gain that you never got and now your old and in the way? It was another world then when they blew the top of my presidents head off in the car in Texas. I saw it on the idiot box screen and heard the screams of the children in the jungles of Vietnam running naked with there flesh burning off from the Napalm that America dropped on their young bodies. I was 18 and they wanted me to go and kill or be killed or hide out in cave on opium sweating through the long hot night to the music of the doors ‘this is the end.’ Yea we lost the war, only the snakes won and we will lose every war because the flesh is weak and only Jesus sings you free on the Bodhi tree as the white crystal light falls on the land of the free. But I heard another song, from an old black man named Leadbelly and I knew I had to pay my dues so I could sing the blues. So I sold my Guitar and got on the road of Her golden tongue and found the Island where the poets live. And it was the white horse who lived in the corner of the room with and Her and Her name was Om and she was a big monkey meditating on the Ram. So the story goes and the war goes on and on and we die and come around again to sing another song. I am a beggar under Kali’s feet naked and alone, looking up I see the milky way and all the diamond stars whisper my name. Shivoham Shivoham Shivoham

    Shanti Prakash Dharmasara Bhagavan Das at your door ringing the bell.

  2. I hear the bell and it used to ring one way
    but now it seems to ring truer
    I don’t know what there is other than to just sit still and listen
    Perhaps it is due time
    I took a horrible trip upon a time
    the red Queen was there but she declined
    she always declined once upon a time
    when it was she and I
    I did not seem to have the magic touch
    to take her from mundane into another realm
    although she professed to being the queen of cool
    or so it seemed
    once upon a time when our paths crossed more frequently
    so it ended up just me alone
    diving through haunts of old school yards
    then when back en’ route to the higher -top clime
    where the trees bend in the wind
    where things were so much more sublime
    the blotter kicked in and the red construction paper became a sick sad taste
    excuse me , but i really can’t kiss this sky right now
    listening to AH was taking me too far into the heart of forever
    i internally screamed for help but was lost amongst fools
    who only knew how to party
    not how to commune with God presense
    the story of my life, only me
    You once told me that there were many chapters in the book of my life
    whoever i might be…
    this new chapter is perhaps number 11
    ‘ The Setting Free…’
    let’s hope so.
    time is of the essence
    and since time does not exist

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