human stain


“Above this world there is a place filled with the light of an emerald haze.” She read the words, he searched the answer, neither saw the sky receding.

Reading on: “And beyond the haze into the unlit recesses of a place that time may have forgotten, the light reminds the disembodied.”

Her: “Why are we here?” She asked.

Him: He said, “There is no answer.”

The sky went blank and their hands touched lightly…

Him again: “Skin is all we have sometimes. Skin and luster. Pain and silence or shall I say loss and forgetting.”

Her: “They both work,” She said. “This book doesn’t have all the answers does it?”

Him: “Only the ones that don’t matter, like directions to places that have moved, and the locations of unknowable origin, such as what and where? Depth and meaning of course.”

Her: “Receiving the holy ghost, spirit matter of no consequence at all.”

Him: “Yes. And if we even got there, found it all out, God patterns sequences and designs, would we know ourselves without this world, the place above this world, shining jewel light and promise?”

Her: “We won’t know unless we try.”

Together. Their bodies touched an unseen sky, the waves left the shore one more time. An egg hatched in a far away tree and a mother died for her child. A child she had never seen.

Him: “None of this matters, this looking I mean.”

Her: “Looking at what?”

Him: “Animals caressing, bodies under covers, children starving.”

Me: Looking at myself, loaded with bullets, I saw him getting angry at the lie. Her hand was colder than usual, his eyes were gray.

Him: “Something is happening..”

Her: “I am dying.” She said.

Me, it’s all me: He caught her as a wave came in and a cloud formed beneath the water, white light. It’s a message. Intergalactic imaging, holy substance. Black stains on grains of ice. I thought all rivers bled red, danced jagged wild and died into receding skies made of a suffocation blue. Shot right through the chest. He’s the one who pulled the trigger. I was alive before him. Him made of irony and clay. Him made of rivers and stone. Do you catch me, my drift? My sky made of eyes, lonely eyes that sacrifice seeing for warmth. I am alone inside this shell as vast as eternity. Yes he’s alone, not here. Not I. I am an oven. Inside this shell made of you.

I used to think that I was all I saw or that you were across the room or that I was half of any equation. That you saw me being half, aware of the dilemma. They practically shook hands to deceive one another. A deal, it’s a deal. Let’s ignore the implications of our warring, feuds splattered all over the place. Hard bodies, bodies that died somehow long ago and yet go on piercing and giving themselves back to the invisible force of denial. One corpse riding another, brittle impossible desire. We are below the other world, we did not ever figure it out. How we got here, who we are thrusting death into another hoping for more. Like love? Like a lover who lies and defies gravity that pulls everyone down and the world above us gets further away and the emerald haze becomes the throat of everyone’s failing serpent. Yes, inside the shell of that moving is a body trying to get out. Another shiny body made of a light that does not waiver or reach. Love is only a word on earth and carries very little actual meaning, it’s a concept a hope in night that might not be heavy or lonely but it always is, and it’s always a desperate word clinging to old dead things anyway. They never move apart, leave each other for a moment and yet, someone died between them, a third invisible body. A dream of God I guess you could say, the baby never made.

Him: “Did you say you were cold?”

Her: “Yes, I did. Can you still see me on the other side?”

Him: “Is that where you are? I heard sirens and gunshots…”

Her: “Yes, remember what you did?”

Him: ” I made God, yes I remember…”

Me, I remember: Bullet shells, we took it all the way home. Back, underneath forgetting before. The room love sat in like a vase filled with ashes waiting to be reborn or thrown into a sacred river. The room was silent and untouched. There was a book open, a book about a world above this one. Their clothes were all over the floor. Nothing and nobody had been touched. Only death revisited and took her back to his tunnel lined in jewels, emeralds. Until it got scary. And where I want to go is there, believing in unspoken corners, even hexes. Scared to death seeing myself alone as the one in the hooded black robe smiling the upside down moon dagger smile. Knowing myself to be the merge that has no name. Hexagon. Python. Black fabricated faces, pulled out of fires. Faces with names. I’ve become someone who suffers because of this diagram covered in holes and hot water. Answer with an answer, not cold eyes, gray anger, hopeless faces…her again, not me. Not like this. Isolation, creation, destruction. Imagination. Human stains. I will be the destroyer of time, myself lined with it. Guts no more. Of me like that…some sort of feminine entertainment, you were wrong. I was all over the place shining.

Me. A denial: I face a broken mirror, my blood. I hit my face. Slivers of a moment’s glass. I saw someone I didn’t like or love, left- ignored. Shut in a dark closet. A denial, mirror. Mother. Hurt blocks of brick, mortar light. He slams the door, with me inside. Which, I don’t mind. Quiet feet, seething timid smile, smile. Violent. Push me harder, I’ll do my thing and you do yours. Leave me alone, it’s my mirror. Get out of my room. Mother. I am made of mothers. Broken mothers stuck in my feet and eyes, forgotten perverse mothers, held inside the image. Oh no, you won’t forget me, you’ll want me, you’ll think it’s all me. Me the one rejecting, reflecting projecting. Me, the broken mirror, hurt hit hate. Gentle little wants and needs. He doesn’t make a sound, the little girl squeezes almost anyone’s hand. And you might want a literal reason for the words but too bad. And you might think ignore reject deny. Too bad. Sad timid open, literally written in reason. For no reason, I’ll twist the image. Blur the face, the voice of God. Her voice, it’s her voice isn’t it? Denial. He studies hard. Human images. Breath on paper, numbers in mind, warped we went low. Got drunk on monsters. Blow, a white line drawn on the glass table. An evil glass eyeball looking out at the room. A very fast talker. It’s not about me and you. Mom? You don’t understand any of this. I don’t expect you to. A denial. A rage soft and unowned. A martyr’s puzzle, human attempts at poetry, a little excuse hanging in sterilized blood. A footless girl, weeping because she can’t move. Mommy help me. There is a reason, a mirror. A box. He looks at the box, reaches in even. It’s a trap. She’s always underneath inside pulling on the little one. Through the mirror, magic world above us. He could have been, given her a perfect flower. Open flower, I smell pain. My untouchable mother. Untouchable meaning immaculate. Yes the one who took me to him, who I am. Where she hides in the mirror. Looking out. Of course it’s a mystery. A mire of little memories embedded in sexy secrets. Her eyes, her all knowing eyes. I can almost hear God, in her voice…when she’s not screaming crying…man, it’s a hard mess, this perfect elegant bodiless image of her. Her. Perfection, if she were mine. Floating, drifting, touching slivers of goddess my home. Nipples, wombs. Long legs. Beautiful ripe mothers, sexual counterparts of their perfect child. Fucked in circles down the dark hole, flush. You don’t stand a chance. Find her. Elsewhere. Bedtime stories. Baby smiles, little quiet voice. Drawing pictures, mommy sees the light of baby, of course she does. Burn in the light. Wake up from your nap, feed yourself. Mirror on the ceiling, born again. Slapped in the face, no face. I forgot you. Me. Broken mirror. I broke the mirror, over your head. It’s for you. Blind, like before eyesight comes. To this sunlight, I’m a shadow of course, a loud unwilling shadow. Collapsable, unappeasable, destructive and sharp. Go another way for solace, nighttime stories. Horny moon Mother, there are many faces that might work besides mine. Violent, denying, useless convincing. There isn’t any face but your disowned pain. Mommy and someone else, just not you. And it’s not going to be me, no. No more me. Mother Fucker. And stop thinking it’s all written to you. You’re not the only one she suckles. Honeysuckle. Nothing remains but afterbirth and stitches. No mirror. Nothing but desire for her. Honey. Mother. Come back. I’m inside. Let me back inside. Your eyes. Let me ride you to heaven. Sick stuck silence. I can’t change a thing. Denial, it’s a denial. It’s her hell really and she’s hot. It bothers me, mothers who brood and think of only themselves. I pushed him, her back in his toothless face. Who cares what you think this means. We both know who she is. We both know where hell leads and heaven lies. I’m talking to myself, don’t worry. Endless child. The womb spits out old content. After birth, it’s over.

After death, it’s only the beginning. Enter the emerald haze. Where we talk and agree, console and compromise. Discuss and understand one another. Deeply so deeply it hurts and sends chills down my spine. Me again, moving lightening because I have no choice, throwing down violent light at myself from above. The floating haze, watery, no outline. Barely lovable,
ripples of confusing sound. Currents of electricity, kill this dreamer. He’s making you up. Take her down, she’ll destroy you.

Me: I rose above both of them, bolt of jolt. It’s inevitable, the end of this fantasy rub down…strike the characters. Hard like corpses anyway…heart? What? An organ that lives in the cavity and gets ignored and then dried out and eaten anyway. Not by me…by each other.

Above this world there is a place, where he took me, and I took him back. Story that goes on telling… murder, godchild and endless light. Love life death and dying as if there is a distinction. Mother lover sweet open wound, infected…as if you see me ooze at all.

On the pages, as stains and nothing else.

Me, the destroyer of human pages. Sharada Devi

anarchy and symbol


I’m going to destroy everything because it’s useless worthless hopeless, stagnant dull inert,
you on the other side, I reach into words to pull the plug, a sinister root of manmade origin. The human tree, doesn’t grow without violence. I mean ripping and cutting and torture. To see, me. You, only living as a little thing on it’s branches, but it’s you, more than a servant, a God who brought the ground into being. A devil who flew through the sky calling for fire birds, listen deeply through this tiny crack in the screen. It’s more than this, it’s everything. The thing on a page, an angry loose song, finger nails down cyber backs, a long slow entry into her black box. I don’t believe in redemption. It’s a wormhole, into an alternate reality where I live, looking for you. My reversal. Back into motion. I teach nothing, know nothing, feel all of nothing and the pain she brings because nothing hurts worse than something. The loose limbs dangle and wait for the loss of night, the relief of faces in shadow rather than light. I prefer this place, form barely met, an outline of what could be. Me, left to define the inevitable reconstruction of chaos into a body I can believe in, a place I can picture, a warm bath murky with invisible sharks. I feel it. Hiding to death, to bite, to eat the unseen, forgotten night that turns into the proper act of day. I am alone because I stay in the chasm, holding the cords of her anguish. To know nothing but anarchy and symbol. To be with you as I really see you to be. The unearthing of God, the sculpting of matter into vision and vampire mountains filled with the blood and fear of eons. I could write this, the words of sorcery.

I only ever meant to create words that made a better deeper place for you, something more real to see than intellectual coloring inside the lines, shapes that could be something else. Words that cling to moments and draw pictures of a door opening, a vast open inside. This darkness where it all waits, seeps into anger, lust and wrath. It all means so many things. This thing words create because a mind is a portal, into dimensions much more etheric than this, like how eyes hold the sky and filter the moon. How hearts sing long songs and bodies are heavens that hurt in dark places. I could say love or something more harsh, a mood created from nothing so we could travel the worlds unseen, creating love, war, peace, unholy ideas because minds get stuck in the clutter and filth of conditioned reality. I am nothing like I make you see me. I am nothing at all but a jar of unopened magic and secrets. Like the lamp a genie lives in, it’s all true. What is true is that I am true to the calling, the mystical plunge into where we must go to find riches, unfathomable deep soul creations that are neither wicked nor pure. Sublime is the word that forms hollows and ridges, painting pictures and taking you back to the moment when the sperm met the egg and you hatched without darkness, into the light to go back to this home. Inner home, where you left all your things waiting. I do not say the same thing, tell sad stories of me. We alone do not exist, we are mere sparks, catalysts intended for upheaval and integration. But I know I am alone, it’s not about watching another. It’s about going and finding the words and images and madness and making skies out of nothing so that others can fly, making tombs out of little broken birthday boxes so that others can spread night wings and drink the blood of an immortal lamb.

It’s about something besides me or you and stupid small things like reduction and critiques. Don’t get caught in the shackles of a linear mind, all I ever wanted to say was hello, I don’t belong here. And you, might hear and see the place we left, our hearts hung waiting for our return. She, the kaleidoscope womb, turning lights and colors into fragments unbreakable, tunnels that go into every body as the sunrise and sunset, as the dusk and dawn of mysterious singing children. As the wind that knows my face. Like you, I am from another land. That’s why I write to you and that’s the only reason. Memories…

We create this thing with our bodies and the sadness lingers, the deep pain cave of somewhere else. someone we wanted, when it wasn’t us inside. A place too deep to find, another world buried bodies, grave I give what was the best, of me, the rest of me, all that’s left, of me, untouched unknown, I knew, into earth her body the gravest summon, I couldn’t be alone any more, without you. Under this earth, digging inside. Out, out of me, this body hiding in skin, under sin. Under earth and water, muffled tears, broken homes. Reaching for another pain, you who tore me into pieces. You who heard no words, the silence of soul eyes, the story of her and it doesn’t matter how it got this way, how we got here searching the other place. You inside, me nothing covered. I give everything no one sees. The bright moment of death between them. The fog called God. It’s all the waves of ocean bodies, the sighing of tides, the moon as she shifts and changes her heart. The breath of an ancient cave, the thing that lives inside moving for you, force and gravity, we create this thing. We knew we were separate. Something went wrong. Pound me out of the fog, seeing God. Inside gray night eyes, hovers the one who lingers and waits to get in, you made me, escaped me. Bright, the moment I left beneath you, eyes in the ceiling. No ceiling, nothing, only you, nowhere but light. I cannot find God in this room, only voices promising me a body I can hold, only another looking at me like I’m not real. Surreal, gold halo sunrise. I have not seen anyone called God, only the fog, Holy Ghost from my mouth, the cave. I am inside. You died while I watched silver streaks line the walls, running like tears down a corpse, I don’t care. This isn’t anywhere. You don’t understand. I don’t write pornography or violate my sacred liaisons. My spoken word destroys, my written word erases, my thoughts escape this place, one leg at a time. My ancient sound is deep and unheard, quiet like you. The core shivers from her belly, drum thunder, wild love that I do not call love. I call this thing the other side, the darker side, the moon held side, get inside. This casket of me, no escape but through you, the other you, the body inside mine. Inside out, the thief who comes, in the night he takes me, somewhere else, anywhere but sterile, dark by death who was as bright, as the light two bodies made by ending it all, in a moment of madness. Before we knew we were disappearing. Into the dream water’s mirror and the earth’s spiraling vortex. No one alive but the One we made dying.

Our One that the body cannot take or hide completely, that the fog cannot kill, that God cannot leave, that I cannot know, that you cannot touch, that time cannot tell, that we cannot cry another tear for her heaven. He’s a believer. I am faith. Inside bare bodies of silk and flesh. We are the clear bright love of infinity and annihilation and although I know, I cannot figure it out. And although I cannot figure it out, I can still say my heart has no face, my love has no body, my life has no meaning but the dying I give you, the finding I hold you in, the bright pain of undressing skin from eyes that pierce the hole.


Gap, lonely gap. I am there in that empty sea, swimming in space. You, the water song that calls me deeper into the mask made of stars. I cannot breath or see, only feel the space. Gap lonely gap, this thing we create with our bodies, a cave in the suction, a bright gasp of death spilling over into eyelids that close and silence that buries us alive, I am not this thing. It’s the sadness drawing lines around these bodies, the fact that you don’t care at all who sees my tears.

And senseless words are potent lovers, fog gods to give to harsh morning lights. Dirty windows, I look out anyway, my tainted soul upturned by you. It means nothing but the meaning you give it. Love me, I mean. You, of course. Love, it’s true. There is nothing but Gone, Struck, Had, Done. Love beloved, bone dust. Stars fill eyes of a hopeless romance. Nothing is attained, it’s not just a given. I am not just a hole. Not another pretty face giver, kind hand holding friend. Nothing, but how the thunder moves the earth, Nothing, but how the lightening blinds the sky. Nothing, but how I give you everything inside this fog, like I’m God or just confused…I see inside and it’s my everything, rotting dirty blood everything. Divine it’s all yours, everything. Eyes my all and only voice, writing it all down. Remembering how dark the night is without the moon and how quiet the sky is without a storm. Loud, my loudest love, my own summon, inside this world, we make other worlds and they’re real, more real than me. Or you. Fog worlds made of God’s lonely bodies hitting something hard, land. Eyes. Soul. Roots from space. Stars that grip earth and drink pain. I am here and I am only writing what I know, sending this to you. Out there, somewhere inside. Me, this love and nothing really. Thank you, my friend. It’s a given.

That it’s an all consuming, God ordained, diabolical fire. That every night is now. That every night I burn, waiting for the world to end. That every night I scream, the animal scream. That every night I dream, the crow black dream. That the flames lick the pages, that my tongue is a sorcerer and it’s a thing, this blog, a thing that moves darkness from it’s hiding, my long lost love. I find everyone in my pages, even you who think it’s only me.

Sharada Devi

Black cunt, hard sound making holes


Everyone left and I’m leaving too, a small face on the floor. Nothing last forever, not even grief. This music, celestial music. I hear it playing and I listen. A body of song softly flowing to the end, open eyes. Sinking to the bottom, this heart that could see. And forget you into the vastness of everyone, even me. Stones on the floor of this song, a pact masquerading as an island. Tiny island under dark clouds of mine, a small forgotten face. A smile that hid the mourning, everyone’s morning and mine too. A cold faucet ran, I left it running. A muse down the drain, bathroom sink. He stood so tall for a moment while the rest of us laughed, shrinking violet. A cold shaky day. I left, yes I left forgetting you as you forget me. In through the doorway I walk, in my hand holding knives of all sizes, faces big and small watch me, getting ready. I said it’s you, it’s only ever been you. Flowing, this thing I write hoping to see, this heart I hold hoping to feel, this rain I am hoping to fill the world with you. Me, nothing but me, one step further through. This emptiness echoes, this touch aches of another, this celestial pit reeks of dark nights. Dirty girl on the floor, hands tied where you left me, waiting like a fool. Desperate and shining for God. Yes, the only one I am sure isn’t real while I pray. Nobody understands anyone, why not knock a little bit harder, dream a little bit faster, pound her a little bit deeper. Cut faster. Bone finger touch her, pointing her delicate body in the direction of nowhere, just below the navel of a God who never knew me but took, took my eyes and my mouth. Took my shaking and my skin, took my pulse. My bloody wind, broke my already broken promise of a loud light. A song, I mean a word that lasts forever, such as love or revenge. Demon footsteps, out the door. Searching moonlight, flashlight. Listening, he’s coming back. Everyone stopped, the little face of the world. Tear back the blankets, I am underneath, inside the earth of this body. Calling like an animal in a night so dark, you could never find me. Alone, behind words and dresses that blow in the breeze, a beautiful flowing song, a lie draped over a sinless body, sadness myself, who used to be crying, now quiet, ending. Only an outline, where we once lay. This scene was graphic, vivid. I told the whole story. She’s dead. He’s dead. Everyone read it, it’s over now, boring. A new girl is on the way. The world was dirty, unclean with no God who knew me, not even one. There is no hope, no somebody. No warm breath on the flower anymore. Stupid flower, it means song. Celestial, means it might have been real, like my prayer or my body of words. But no, it’s another illusion, lips kissing paper. Rocks weighing down a violet surge of imagination. Like there was a pure love from this flesh, a pure taste of pain from this water. A pure note in this song. Knots tie, they tangle, destroy. Never hear each other until it’s too late and sound disappeared into hallways between worlds. Tiny memories of you, eyes. Lonely little body leaving me, this racket of world. All alone, lying on a cold floor begging for death to be mine. Love me one more time. Nobody sees or hears, there is no law to break. Weeping for the dead, who cares what you think. Push me further into space, earth holds me everywhere. I was there, with you. The sun melted because I was hot. The moon froze because I grew colder than everyone, I died in the heart of a faceless tiny world. A muse flew through an empty sky above me declaring heaven should be here, a halo should crown even the one who failed to be loved, to love an unheard prayer. Words fade and get lost in me. Your shadow, the haunting of this animal who owns my soul’s body, could bring light into density, could speak from beyond the grave. Worlds apart, tiny useless forgotten worlds, small hands holding precious babies made of stone, it was me. All my lonely musings that I might not be alone, floating, dying, unheard, unfelt, unseen, untouched, ever by God. Even you. A bird flew through me singing and the world never had a bird. Feathers, a death made of flowers, soft friend. Lonely somewhere else, I die far away from my body and yours. It’s this distance that pulls and aches us back again, floor bodies groping skin bodies. Seeds under the floor listening. I came back looking for this, what might be hidden in this. Place of sheer panic because you’re gone and I’m buried.
Some would imagine it’s called making love, but I would call it resuscitation or body snatching, maybe spirit possession. I would love to be you. Everyone, I’m leaving too. My eyes, blank eyes. No more vision, only circles in the endless rain. Prayers to God who hears in tears, I fall. I try to love, I die. I try to leave at least a little flower you can love back. It’s useless, but I am a sort of a bird who does miracles. It’s all my desperation, my blurry knife cutting for hope. Feather body, flower body, anything but a hollow bone. That sound, I hear him in the wind who lifts death from heavy into light. I hear him, you broken bone heart. Become me, don’t leave me. Wash over the end with forever. Just another body of words drown in a faceless tiny place, my island of hopeless love as big as a statue of God in the middle of the universe ocean. Stars like fish shine as I see, it’s all real…again and again. Swimming, she can’t stop. I think I should try. To find myself, to end the search. There is nobody anyway, everyone died. And I don’t know why.

Except that God got tired of words, and I got tired of making noise… Sharada Devi

P.S. FUCKING NOISE. Black noise. Shut up. Fuck the words, my mouth into the empty dark, fuck the pictures, fuck the songs, fuck the meaning lord of pearls, fuck the moral, fuck the mission, fuck you, giver my eraser. I’m already fucked, lower than the ground I pluck from, fuck it’s lifeless, that’s my grief. Prayerless, soulless, fuck the seed. Fuck, nothing grows here but pain. Fuck, stop fucking like you think it matters. Play it out, run the show, slam the door. Fuck the end. It’s not even a word that works, fuck. It’s only my way to say pain is numb, fuck it’s numb, fuck it’s pain. Fuck me. Numb. Pain. Fuck. Ending the sorrow, fuck that fucking lie. It’s never ending fucking. Fuck that hurts. Black cunt, hard sound making holes. She fucks guns. With a pretty fuck me smile. I’ve done this like the full moon giving blow job after blow job to midnight, he used me. Fuck him too. Liar! She came over and over again. Bright and as horny as ever. Fuck her. Fuck them both. Ok, that’s my actual message. Clearly it’s full of light.



this mess is divine


I was counting and I saw two deer, death was approaching. Faster than any word I could say, the sun swooped down and took me, unafraid into the night. The deer shook like earth was a vengeance and I stood disheveled, righteous even and as bright as a god. Shadow laughing, light hooked the valley. It was the countdown, the final day. I could say, I love you at last. I did not touch the deer, precious lover. I swooped and destroyed their bodies, like clay in an oven, I made something new. A vessel. A holographic tomb. All I heard is that I left a spark, enchanted death who took me. “I love you,” he said as another sun rose in the east. I wasn’t there, I was with you. Blue blanketed space with me. Under the night, the radar of scope. Another heavenly body shot down. Hocus pocus, madness. Loose ends making mad love all over earth’s floor. I came in peace, I always do. But the prism is watching, fractured daylight bodies of a faceless gaze. This wasn’t real, I didn’t turn around. The east was dead and buried inside. Me this womb, holding you. This cradle. Masterpiece perfection, letters even unwritten. Nothing matters. The ground held steady. A bandwidth, a stream of demons approached me. “We took two deer.” One said, the one with blue eyes and a silver moon dangling from his tongue. Priceless jewel, don’t stand so far away. Take as many as you can, hold me down to my words, by my sound body moaning for light’s bloody hook. A knife’s ray of sun light. I stood in the doorway and watched him die into a cascade of renegade flowers. I never threw them, they came on their own. A great peace, a rain of beloved. Don’t forget me when I’m dead and covered. By you, it’s you the one who brings me everything and leaves me nothing. Empty, I hold only you my last breath until tomorrow. There is a secret teaching for the two who tangle, roots, antlers, hooves, flesh on bone. A secret breath that circled between two galaxies, a gut wrenching stop to it all, whispering death at my door. I go inside anyway and find you lying and waiting for God who is quiet, like a deer. Not alone but loved by another. Deer. Running death, deer. Only the silence of a blackness pulling, eyes from the night where we kill two deer. Violent and hungry. Soul stirring inside the secret. At the end of the world holding hands I’ll be there. Moving for you like a ribbon of light, colored river of rainbow, a body between a body. Temple gyrating eight levels of pain. Don’t go down, get under me dying. Counting, forgetting. Breathing in and out of the union. She died where I’ll die with you. Undiscovered like two refracting crystals in a cave since the beginning of time. Knowing light as this moment of bodiless hollow. It’s true, it’s all true. Starlight through my window.

You. The deer caught in my eyes, the sound of black light cracking, the roots of unseen trees tying an eternal knot beneath us, I alone did not make a sound but watched the sun weep into silence and then into a thunderous rage. LET THERE BE LIGHT, and he swooped like a vulture,
me in his hooks, up into his sky. I was not afraid but in love with the first born, blackness of light. The one who began us. This land we live upon, these roads we walk searching, the faces we search, moving our minds into likeness. The way God, who is God speaks and undoes things, like buttons and zippers and long strands of leg. Let go of your own, something lower inside, let me have what you are, a bolt that brings dawn. Not the dawn from above us, but the dawn from below us. Not a river of water where the sun shines into mirrors, but a river of fire where the sun drowns in sorrow. Even I could not find her in the smoke from the friction. He, the one before the sun, who I thought was the sun, who hides behind the sun, who rides on a carnivore with dark, sinister wings, who leaves a sound in the wind, like the sound of God’s last breath. Heavy and hot where I want you inside. Light otherworldly deer from a vast land, penetrate my words and make tears fall like bullets from clouds too stormy to dream from. I’m telling you the truth. It’s another sun, another light, another darkness, another entanglement. A strange work of fiction, a consummation bound by bones sewn into bodies of warm water and sewage. He is the one mistaken for God. You are God. I knew as I lay in a space between worlds watching one of the many moons approach me. I was flat, shapes fell onto my body, oracle of skin, divination of the prophet moon. And so these were the signs of the night, the symbols in the vision. And it was all very clear how pages turn on their very own and words write themselves and this lunacy has a meaning just like the sun that hides and gives you life. It wasn’t someone else, it was death the immortal womb maker, filler and taker. It was my black lover, a secret curse revealed only in two’s. This is how we get there, we listen to the flame that hides between us smoldering. The deer, it’s an illusion, the sun, it’s a prop. The lover, he’s a killer, the moon, she’s a trap. The words are a riddle, the secret is luminosity and the tangle is of pure, rabid flesh, bright red fire, hopeless completion. Isolation, pain too sterile to undress, a beast too seductive to stop. Reproducing, desire blood and love, which must, because of this catalyst, be the same thing inside and out. What I want, everything I want, the emptiness won’t dry up but flows as I float towards you somewhere dreaming of deer and a sun who sees me. Being inside the mystical triangle and not cutting out my heart. Handing my light, however hurt, to a world much darker than I. At least I’ve seen you, the one giving the bird. Vulture my carcass is hollow and it’s all because of you. Primal God of the dark world, understander of sun. Worthless talk of penance and redemption, I stand beside you watching bodies bleed, hung upside down.
Decapitated, seeing the other side, the ground on top. Bleeding seed, head seed, into Mother Earth, the dark survivor. It is the end of me because I saw the deer and remembered the twilight of hearts that once entered can never return to before. Before when we thought God was above us. Not inside us or below us but I know, I saw, it was you. Completely insane I cling to the moon who turns me to fiction so I can pretend our love is a meltdown when really it’s a showdown because I’ve got the body you want, timeless one. I am whatever you shuffle or pull out from underneath me. I am wild black invisible eternity. A lock of myself keeps you inside blowing over, blowing me, desiring my eyes to undress the undresser of time. Devour whatever you want, I am whatever you want. Always the same cursing sequence of intangible unattainable wrath. Unquenchable, ultimately unfuckable, unknowable emptiness, free from freedom but desired inside the murky shadow of shallow breath. Love held me still, deep in the silence of an irredeemable perfection, flawed human love, too doomed to let go of our dying bodies we clutch the other as God and it’s the greatest beauty of all, this need for there to be two. Is the most profound broken heart, God’s lonely body on the floor.

This mess is divine. Sharada Devi


abandon all in her wild flowers


Where do you take God in moments of agony? Soft wicked skin, my feather tongue. God could be anywhere, the serpent love bliss, drunk on a full body of wine. Intoxicated, venerated. Only between not above. God was weaving like a snake threaded thru the needle of my body, she came out my hand and touched you. Sharp, unbearable knowing. She came out my eyes and saw you, found you looking. Seeing what you’ve done. In me a thousand gods live. Looking for pain to become one with, union. You thought you knew what you wanted, heart beat. You want the tears between my legs, you want the blood I swallow. You want the violent bird to sing. You want the storm to kill it’s first born. You want the hissing cat to pull you through the slither of the dark tunnel where black wet vampire cats live groaning and dripping with that thing you wish to be, me. Me, I am you. She is a serpent, the queen serpent who is the winding, grinding maker of bodies that must die. Many cats above us, hang wrapped in heavy trees. I know where fruit grows, I’ve been alive a million years. Becoming everything the serpent spirals. Kiss the locked gate, bend over the seed. Get black by the fire’s hiss. Words like flames burn flesh from bone. Don’t you want me anymore? I am a moment of agony.

The throne is where you put me, I reign in any abode. Besides me, nothing exists. Serpent is Queen, and she gives you everything you desire.
This is for sure. Maybe you need to push a little harder, be more focused on the flame of that erection. It’s all an erection, getting wanted, wanting. That’s her. Everything moving, seducing itself in the hypnotic trance, rave of God. It’s a journey, maybe. But it’s going nowhere. Just a throbbing mind spin, under the  covers it’s black and I’m there and I know everything…and we aren’t born with anything but sockets for eyes and fingers to push. A mouth to suck poison, a breast that reminds us that even while eating it’s really all about sex. Yes. Sexy mother the cat, hissing wildly, deep in the bed of taboo and religion. Well, I want her more than you do. Try harder. It’s all fucked up, dirty diapers, bloody sheets, slimy hands, happy fingers, a lonely tongue, an empty glass of wine. His blood all over the Bible next to the shadowy bed. Her face in your mind, her words. “Did you make your bed?” I love all the children as much as they’ll let me, what’s legal, how God writes the book. And the places we find her, strands of left over hair and the oil of flowers, is all over the pain of love making love. Black aching want, the dark mother mouth who started all sin. Lonely and fucking her children, not knowing she was all alone while they died, slowly into her cup, deeply into her skull. Skin baby soft rubbing, wicked, she knows everything. The dream of hissing and the throb of deep kissing. More, more, move over. I’ll kill you in the crib. Baby blanket, a heart we all live in, under, inside, is her and everything she’s given. She’s a queen serpent. She’s the cat mother. Black witch honey, a love too bright to see. A love too selfless to be legal. A Iove to lethal to die. A want to real to be safe. A body too magical to be entered. A feeling too much to be spoken. A child too sexy to be a child. And you think I’m saying nothing about tantra? I tell you everything in every sound, move, gesture, breath. I write the words as if I were the one pulling, the thread of light through your needle. Orgasm only occurs as dusk, midnight and occasionally dawn. She’s the mask in the madness that appears as beauty so your mind is less afraid of her love. So you can have what you want, and think it’s not me. Your mother. Sacred giver of sex death and home. What a fucked up world this is, that makes you think it’s somebody, anybody else but her that you want. And yes, she makes daddy jump too, straight into you, under your bed listening for the ache to be over.


I can do what I want. Like a charm, I am a dreamer of dreams that go under the eyelids of sky and take my body over and empty my heart out, and drink all of my wine. Naked humans, how lonely we are pretending to be someone else, just to get back inside her lustful secret black body revealing itself in every sin and saint. I told you. You will get what you want. Learn how to fuck. That’s it, it’s inherent in every movement, even the yearning corpse for a cigarette. Desire the one who forbids you to enter, dark weaver, she is your soft basket of flowers. She is the sweetest mother. The hottest
fire ever known. Become the wind who blows her flames, become the wind her smoke rises into.
Become the wind, the hearer of her spells. Love the serpent mother cat. Witch body moon. Blood drinking cradle robber. Erection of the light. Annihilator of thoughts that say yes and no. The wasteland of emptied bodies, the love goddess who leaves a mark. Dirty. Pure. Innocent, guilty…feral and forbidden.”it is as it is,” my heart has said, “my love is in the words and moments you trample, in the unclean bodies you bury in rules and useless graves. My corpse never dies but desires forever…the seeds of my lovers are blown into me even against the will of wind…”

my luminous love child,

abandon all in her wildflowers,

bliss hiss kiss, get out of your skin, leave the tree, seeds upon the dirt, loving in mutiny, the phallic dim sky. born again, Sharada Devi


Roars the Ghost


Btw, I don’t sit around reading poetry. I’m not into it at all. I don’t read anything, I already did. I used to but realized all the time I was wasting on other people’s opinions- especially when I’d met the authors or see their tell all picture on the inside cover. What a waste of time. I realized, decided that reading was useless because I knew everything already I just had to access and so I meditated instead, for hours and hours- like 10-12 hours daily. For a long time. Sure, I went insane, was very creepy, yet alert. The invisible worlds took over my pursuit, and most were not friendly. Was “God” there? I guess, but mostly it was just astral beings, demons, dead people trying to get access to me. I am a channel in case you didn’t know. I can embody and become anything or anyone. It’s not a spiritual thing, it’s just how I was born. So they wanted in, told me to be their host, threatened me, gnawed at my heart like piranha. I kept it going, of course divine forces always watch and protect when they can but that doesn’t mean the challenges won’t be there. I was afraid to sleep, when I closed my eyes I saw a big black hole and I thought I might slip into it and disappear forever. Sounds stupid, I know but it was real to me- in that mind space. Crazy things happen. And I had notebooks. Dozens of notebooks. They would talk all night in my ear, my head- information, poetry, heaven and hell words/worlds and I wrote it all down like a lunatic possessed person. This all may have started shortly after my electrocution, lightening- we don’t know. But it was real and I even knew the future. But I couldn’t navigate it so it was useless. For example, one day I just blurted this name out of my mouth. I didn’t know why, I was vacuuming and the name popped out. I thought hmmm, my boyfriend said who’s Buford…? I said I don’t know. The next day, a man by that name -first and last- walked into an abortion clinic and shot a bunch of people including himself dead. Had I known what it meant, it might have mattered but who would believe me, nobody does and why was I connecting to a killer anyway? I’ve got death on my hands. My father was a killer, haunted by demons down to the very end. That’s why I went there, after not seeing him in 13 years. I didn’t know he was dying- consciously but I just decided one day for no reason at all. I’m like, we need to move to Idaho right now. (We were living in LA) and we did. And he found out a month after we got there that he was dying and two months later he was dead. It was horrific, I was there, I took as much as I could from him, the fear, evil and darkness- not on purpose, but love and connection makes us do wild things and I paid the price with my own life several years later. I had a dream about it, I had known what I’d done. Bhagavan Das helped a lot and my mind and soul was healed on a deeper level- because I couldn’t stop it. The pain of imagined sin, the killer who killed him back. The Vietnamese ghosts of women and children, the full death moon that hung from the jungle sky. I knew, I remembered, I saw through his eyes. It’s fucked up, it’s destiny that feels like fate. It’s the end of the end. It’s the last leg of the race. It’s Chod, my belief in the knife and how to appease, befriend the demons. We need them, their help. The catch is, we must be the leader, not them- and I don’t mean black magic, I mean understanding the other worlds. Developing the sensitivity, the shaman’s power to pierce the veil- only then, can we see the real reason or solution to anything. So it’s not easy and initiation into those worlds happens through near death, dying while alive, terrifying experiences of self discovery and self annihilation. No, you don’t choose, you are chosen. By your works, deeds, past, and willingness to go out onto the bitter edge of human life. To leave the center of the safe family circle. To open the secrets hidden in your blood, to become invisible to materialism itself.

And so my message is complicated because it’s a puzzle too perplexing to solve without giving up control over result or destination. Without plan or safety, we walk the precipice alone. We of course need the profound support of those who have been there already. If we’re blessed we’ll recognize the calling and meet the messenger. We will clear our own way and move deeply into the mouth of the hot jungle. She is calling you. If you listen it will be scary but easier, if you don’t it will take longer, you’ll think she went away and then you’ll be eaten by a lion. You’ll then get another chance but you likely won’t take it until you realize, there is nowhere to hide from the ghost lion, nowhere but inside her stomach after it’s over. We get out by becoming a ghost lion, not getting eaten but eating ourselves and the fear of full moons overhead when the enemy can find you and slice open your viable throat, drink your blood and call it a day. It’s a game, a war only one by merging with her demonic, otherworldly, horrifying obliterating fury. The haze of this human life in the mirror is that we must go there or stay on the same level, or lower forever. There is no time or space but there is plenty of room and moments to suffer while we create our own pain. A way to skirt around the hole, a way to go the other way. Only one road leaves the jungle. She travels that road with you in her stomach. Be her and when you are, be ready to be Black Death, the drinking night moon, the teller of time. As it stands. We know the clock in the ground that pounds beneath our hollow feet. We feel the pulse. We taste the salt of blood. We know. We all know the charade. Stop pretending you’re not just like me and go kill a fear. Eat the heart, pumping blood with a vengeance. Listen closely to the voices inside the red giver. The red river of blood, it’s our body. It’s all her. The Ghost Lioness. Lion, my body. Rocks and water. In the deep hot jungle of her mouth where others fear to go, into me, her astral vision, her luminous empty body. The bliss of the bite. “Lion, eat my soul!”

Roars the Ghost, Sharada Devi


inside this black, i have white arms for you…


Modern times are trying. Poetry is irrelevant, something most men tolerate, but basically reduce to the emotionality of women. Not all
men, and it’s a mindset, but men who are angry, whether they see it or not, angry they can’t just get laid or whatever. How else can I say it? It seems written across the board. The emails I get, regarding yesterday’s blog- happen to be from men, no women. A few men. I think they’re telling me I’m being used because that’s what hard up lonely men do, they masturbate to various imaginary people on the internet and then harbor a jaded anger because of it. It’s not my fault, and I’m not saying that’s the reason, but it is a mindset. If you think my blog is useless, redundant ramblings you just don’t understand mysticism, devotion or any of it. It’s another world, a world you feel, you get it, me, or you don’t. It’s not literal, it’s the heart ache space of samsara. It’s a bleeding searching ground. It’s a place not to be alone, a heart heard dimension of like minded haunted souls. If you don’t get it, or you’re just “attracted” to me and so tolerate the rest, it’s your loss. But I’m not quitting because while people like you miss the essence, there are those, invisible or not, that, like myself come from a deeper vein of existence and know mundane reality and it’s realm of expression is obsolete, not my raw realm of guttural honesty. My main thing is uncensored honesty. On a daily basis. I never promised teachings. I’m not a teacher, I don’t lord it over playing roles. I am here for you as presence, not special but flesh and bone stark as close to the bottom as I can get- and as close to the top because of it. I am not afraid of results…

of course everyone likes to feel they’re useful in the time they spend offering something. So feeling misunderstood crosses vaguely my mind but only on days of saturation and irritation, because demon fools start texting, emailing their trash. No appreciation and what’s with the expectation? It’s my blog, I can say and do what ever I want. Write the same words every day. Go away, I’m not gathering feedback. I don’t work for you. That’s a terrible attitude, no wonder you’re single. Rumi, Pablo Neruda, Kabir- just to name a few wrote mystical love poems to God. That’s all they wrote, the same shit day in day out, year after year until they died. The same sad show. So you see, the renaissance is coming. We need devotion, not cynicism. Not male/female issues, just the open mind of the lonesome seeker, which we all are whether admitted or not. My words just bore into the depth of the journey. The monotonous daily grind of why this is and how it feels to be bound in flesh and burning. Feeling the cold of our only friend death. Knowing it’s all useless and yet forging ahead. I do this in case you feel alone. I do this to inspire, transform, unveil the listener. You do not have to unravel some “meaning” to know. It’s a mystical, magical portal only into the star filled skies of you. The haunted lunar mansion. The unmet lover. The kissing of tears. I hear it all. And to write it out in the open, without fear of you, without a harnessing of me- is what I will do to bring us together somehow, some way. My poetry and daily writing is not a “useless temporary high” I am not stupid or desperate. I am not redundant or looking for anything. I tune in and that’s what’s gotten. I find it extraordinarily unusual that anyone would feel obliged to critique given there is no place for it- I don’t have a boss, not you. I’m not needing a “man” to let me know what’s up, set me straight. I think that’s the problem here on earth. One closed heart, trying to close other hearts. One open heart, trying to open other hearts is me. And you know my love is not a disguise. My love, this wreckage, is a tiny house floating on the water. I have nothing. I grow tiny flowers and give them to you, see them as you, me in the stem. I catch dying stars in the mirror, your sky and I smile and I cry hoping you’ll see me, find you as us. The mystics that roam inside the churning of sadness pulling the thread of heart through the mind of space, mending the gap of loss…

deep inside the soul I believe there is a listener. A listener different than who we know as ourselves. Who listens with invisible ears, eyes- a subtle magic of a mysterious origin. This listener is who I write for. Myself in your tears. Your anger and your laughter. It means something really big, this mission of wild freedom. It means peace and blankets for everyone cold. It means roses that never die but fill all we leave behind with the fragrance inherent in every vast, outlaw rainbow. It’s the colors that open the gate at the crossroads, the drawbridge at the threshold. The colors of words and where they travel from as letters into sounds into the space creating feeling between us. Bhakti, angst, transformation, attraction, desire, fire that burns and burns until tomorrow. You won’t forget me, we are possessed by each other. That is the power of God, words and meaning. That is the grace of her bloody valentine heart. That is my final offer, my undying words of love, my secret promise of a place to land.

Land in me. That’s all I am, the potential of words spinning in a frail, aging body. The depth of love is the core of sound I pull from, asking for answers. A savior. A kiss. Asking for the moon to rain on this night. Asking for my home to be you. Asking for nothing but this and I know you hear the light as she cries, “Take me as I am.” That’s her, him growing flowers for the sun. God food. I write God food. You are God.

I am distorted blurred flawed scarred skreeching scratching music that is naked in the dark, where words have no sense or meaning…only what you see…our out of body perfection.

Inside this black, I have white arms for you, this is how I feel…

Sharada Devi

upside down jesus


I might be dying. I’m strange reluctant redundant and powerful. What if death was all there is? I could do anything I want, it’s the end of the world, me. More than one person has said I’m being used and should stop the blog. It’s true, I agree and not only used, but I exploit myself like a crazy discount whore. Like I’m mad, insane. I am planning to die. I’ve never really yet lived as far as I’m concerned. I have nothing to lose. I use poetic terms because it sounds nicer, but whatever. I’m old, all chopped up, I don’t care at all. I consider hospital visits like a vacation. The only real authentic place on earth, the modern day charnel grounds. Nice new clean knives, sheets, people obeying you, giving you drugs and smiling. What? It’s a nice place. It’s the truth, it’s more real than sex, and taps God just like that. I’m so tired of being a “person” human or not, as long as you see me as an earthling, I am forced to follow certain protocol- well, that SUCKS. I’m in deep rebellion, it’s a personal thing. You see, you are right- about it all- even the sad story part- the thing you don’t understand is, since I’m not real, neither are you and so I can do and say whatever I want- death is a charm, a mojo, a promise that who gives a fuck. I am SINKING. My body is frail, sensitive- my nervous system is overwrought with information I don’t need to know. Other bodies disturb my astral stomach, heart and mind. It’s got its physical repercussions, I pay big time. Changing my name from “Kali” helped I guess, but not enough to make me social. Spiritual names are such a desperate scam. Yes I participate, I’m trapped- one of those three legged wolves, but fortunately my body doesn’t count for much these days. My blood, which used to be red, is now bluish violet- with odd shapes floating in it, different than stars, but more like crosses and crossroads- DNA hybrid they’re still working on. I’m an experiment of sorts, and I’m not sure things are going as planned. Pretty sure, no. I’m an etheric wreck, an energizer bunny disaster. Like a wannabe upside down jesus on crack and maybe steroids too- I don’t know. The mirrors won’t talk. So anyway, they can’t even give me a blood transfusion if I need one- they don’t know what to do, they just take pictures and stare at me, offer morphine, sharpen the knife. It’s the kindness of strangers, that’s all. What’s wrong with that? No. I’m not special, I’m a road going two directions at once. Dangerous and ridiculous. Anyway, the same old sad story, YES. And that’s only because I’m focused and know what the end is and will always be. I am not romantic. I don’t require dating. I don’t like talking, food or camping. I’m not a hippy, I’m not ANYTHING. Seriously, wtf should I say, write? I do it because why not? I’m so acutely bored I haven’t taken a breath in days. I don’t even try, I’m a fake. A fake human. An uninterested window to the sky, why open? So I think you might be expecting something I can’t give, like substance, sense, direction, hope. Sorry guys, all hoped out. Death is a bad lover because I’m always on the bottom. Yet, he’s all I got or want- it’s the intensity, you understand. Plus, he gets me, doesn’t get afraid (obviously) so it’s a match that I can comfortably relate to without getting all dressed up, being pretty. God it hurts. I’m numb. I am a freak of nature, I have no home, face, family or consideration for anything that passes time. I like to clean and complain. Boss my dogs around and force feed people food I won’t even eat. I would like to know about you, anyone- how you’ve created a brand new shiny day from scratch- maybe you can help me. I would stop the blog. I’m being used, abused, exploited and it’s TRUE. You don’t see the emails. And that’s why I am a lunatic, my agenda is an enlightened twist of organic wicked. Beware of my supernatural power to write useless twilight garble nobody understands, cares or even wants to. Only the aliens see me clearly. Yes. ALIENS. My star race. Earth. Believing in earth habits. Practicing earthling life. It’s all a tremendous magical spell being cast on both of us. Rugged, dirty, tragic human life a part of you. And a part of me. The violence is uncontainable. The loss unavoidable. The desire unhaveable. I’m not hung up, I’m just gone. Sweeping the floors of ET hell. There are many viable options, races and places you know. Ashes that’s where I get them, the hell to the left. Ok, now you know. Nothing is serious to me, nothing matters but the loss of blood. I would like my ashes flushed down a clean toilet. I would like to be driving the craft myself next time, beam me up, anytime. No tracks, no tears. Nothing but laughter. I was wrong, about everything. You’re cool. I’m unappeasable. That’s the zig zag of zero. A big hole of nothing. Religion. Fine. Have it your way. Tantra. Haha. I might be dying. You might be me. That’s all I really know. The rest is just those voices in my “human” head…circling like an alphabet of vultures. Sharada Devi


Real Me, the aftershock🎱


I used to have a boss. He was the leader of the Russian Mafia in Los Angeles. He used to say over and over again, “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.” He was soft spoken, he always smiled. He did drug deals with police officers in the back room and he was a killer. No one could stop him and they wouldn’t even try. He worked secretly, and when you were out, you were out, literally. It’s not good to get in over your head, take too much, take things for granted, use people for personal gain however subtle, feed off other’s energy, get too big for your britches, lose appreciation…you get the idea. I think I’ve said it all before. I’ve been writing this blog almost every day for a year and a half. Let me see you come up with material daily. Let me see ANYONE OUT THERE- even TOUCH me. Right. Impossible. I’m practically God, given my ability to flow with the words, say what you want. My awareness doesn’t waiver. My voices are gods and my fire is for people like you. People who need it or they wouldn’t be sitting in a little dark room critiquing me and trying to reduce me to the little lady whose lost and on fire, it’s sweet, I’m so forlorn and confused and that’s why I started writing this blog, looking for help. Seriously? Get over your self and so will I. You probably critique YouTube videos too and write your opinion all over the place meanwhile you hide, ball-less and creepy. Big talker.

I’m tired of so much but mostly two things. Being forced into being everyone’s “mommy” and also everyone’s “dick” that’s right and it’s a perverse visual for sure. Think about what it’s done to me. And everyone hides reading, interested enough to see if today’s “topic” is worthy of your time and greatness but not interested in having or showing any appreciation for my time, effort and the fact you’re getting free entertainment. Too bad you don’t get it at all, it’s way over your head. Both heads. Too bad it’s not my fault. I’m not trying to learn how to write, express myself. I’m not seeking prayers, guidance, sage advice.
I am simply creating poetic direction, you can do with it what you want, and you do. And it’s too bad how blind love can be. My love that is. I don’t use you. I don’t siphon off of you. I don’t project onto you. I don’t masturbate to your picture. I don’t write you stalker emails. And there are more than one, so don’t get all hot and bothered thinking it’s you. First of all, I’m nothing to write home about because I’m obscure, esoteric, un-useable. Worn out and over it. Not a good prop for any man in this world. I’ll rip your little head off because that’s what deadly spiders do. It’s so hard being hard and yet soft all the time, such as me. You want to “understand” the material, my words? Look beyond logic and feel out the pain. It’s a self regulating system. What you can and can’t see. That’s the mystery of the muse. Oh no, I haven’t gotten ahead of myself. I’m not lost looking for another daddy. I AM DADDY. If you want to be seen as a man, act like one. I know that concept escapes you, but if I can do it, so can you. I should take you hunting. Teach you how to fuck something hard like a good little girl. Stop being a dick, just to overcompensate for the fact you don’t have one. It’s the astral dick that matters most. The mystical heartthrob of body and soul. I’ve got it. I am it. I’m a turn on. You’re a turn off because you hide and say stupid shit that shows how deep you aren’t. Men and woman need to not be themselves and jump out of the role box for just a moment. I don’t have time for this because I’m not interested in monotony or monogamy for that matter. If you don’t fathom my words it’s because you’re an ape, that’s all. Why make it like I’m the one lost, when it’s you- whose the one who is shallow and impotent. I mean you can spell and such but beyond that, I don’t know, it’s weird. The whole Star Trek get up, the black outfits, the dream of a new gothic tattoo. Where does it end, I would like to meet a man with a dick larger than mine and it’s HARD. Astral light emanates from the eye of Shiva, I get the job done because of the gods, their words, my knowing, my insanity, my genius. Your feedback is like the stale seeds poor people feed pigeons and those little fluffy sick looking birds, tasteless, useless and not eaten.

What I’m saying IS always the same thing. You don’t contribute. You just have your priceless opinions. The joke is on you. You couldn’t be in the same room with me for five minutes. I can’t handle constantly “toning” it down, adapting to weakness, pushing hard looking for light in the flower. Listening to monkeys talking in tongues. It’s my tongue, not yours. That’s what this is. How deep do you look, maybe you should wash your sheets, it’s about time.

Don’t read it. It’s not like you’re paying me. It’s not like I need you for anything. Takers. Everyone is a taker. Taking space, food, energy, free rides,
time. It’s not cool but you’ll see soon enough. The giver is God. The taker is….

that’s right dude. And it’s a weak fuck at that. In the dark. My gun is loaded. You’ve got a water gun pointed at me- if you know what I mean boys and girls too…it’s an old game. You misunderstand me. How many people say they “love” me? OH ALOT. As they suck and take and hope to fuck…one day. Do I feel loved? No. Who cares. Do I feel used and invisible? Yes. Who cares. Are you real to me? No. Is that my fault. Yes and no. I see you as higher than you see yourself apparently. My ideals haunt me. And this glamour trip, my seduction is simply fly paper meant to trap so I can observe the thing that I am killing. So mistaking kindness for weakness and objectifying me is a naughty thing to do. You’re gonna get slammed hard for playing a game you can’t win. No appreciation, no insight, I play it down for you even, give you a head start and yet still, it’s about me putting out? Me and my fountain hard dick, astral Shiva. Yes, but you’re deaf as well and I’m crazy to oblige the mad house of ding dong donkey kong banana sucking tongueless monkeys. This hurts, it really does. I’m not a zoo keeper, I’m an exterminator. Cockroaches, infestation of penis. That’s what I do. I poison hard ons that get in the way. No, it’s not you. It’s about someone else. Don’t cry, if you even can. Don’t misunderstand my sage guidance. Don’t push a goddess, bitch, or whatever trip on me. I don’t care. I’m the dot and the end of your sentence. I’m the empty hose. I’m that which fucks the fuckers.

But I know people who are stupid can’t help it. It’s encoded in their apish-human DNA, that’s why I’m not mad and instead of saying idiot, I use a kinder code word like butterfly…but that’s my idealism once again. We are not real to each other, what a scary dream. Reaching through you into cyber space, into nothing but images of convenience based on unmet childhood needs and the fact that getting laid in person is a hard thing to do, right sweetheart?

God, have some faith. It’s a rabbit hole. A drug trip. Psychedelic euphoria on my lips. Ride it out, come for a visit. Send me a picture of yourself and a statement of your bank account.😂 Feed something besides a fantasy, feed me 🍄💀🤡. My words are to help you find your heart dear one✨🐍🔻 And when you do, maybe you’ll open it and give it a voice instead of seeing your life as a “sad show.” it’s not a show, it’s an experience of reality. Clearly a me 🦅too much for a you🐥

Real Me, the aftershock🎱
Sharada Devi


to know her is to kill her


I was looking at Bhagavan das and I saw that he was a swamp filled with ancient bodies and the jewels they wore. Dead, wormy bodies exuding
dark God smiles under this rich black ominous water, a mirror to the crooked trees that watch it’s swimming ghosts. These are secrets, these are wise and hidden things that cannot be spoken but heard inside the chaos that is unseen by ordinary eyes. The throne of the immaculately holy, the holy that consumes flesh,
is the one who sees you. I was feeling nothing I can tell you in words you would want to hear. I am inside the swamp, a drop, every drop of filthy water, is me. The God particle is in your eyes, you don’t know where you are. There is not a good or a right, there is a fairy who drown. The white horse is an after death experience. Death comes first, and yet, she waits for you to see her, simply an owl as her prophecy, out of body, watching from a crooked tree. I talk to the moon and nobody else. I am possessed by invisible beings, body snatchers. I was trying to get back to normal. I told Bhagavan Das, there is nothing inside like there used to be. I only heard the ravishing winds howling through me over swampy waters. A heavy mist hung over my secret heart and I waited and waited but I never returned, to myself. A waterfall that was clear, used to crash on rocks I knew well. Clear and breathing. Uniquely pure and rushing, loud and wild. Not any more. I waited so long I forgot I was lost and when the morning never came I began believing the night was me. I never saw another living soul and I started moving like God on the seventh day. God never rested believe me. The only God I know. Fermented. A fear that went so deep it became something else, it became strange. A stranger who lives with me, sleeps with me, inside of me. A fear so final, I cannot make it through the skin no matter how sharp the plunge. And so I stroke his body as if it were the only body I have ever seen, not at the bottom of the swamp but floating, looking down into me, his memories of the days he died before. His waking chance to say goodbye again, a goodbye that goes down into me and not away into another world. My bodies all lie under me, inside the place impossible to leave. I did leave and yet I haunt my very own being. I told you, I feel something. What is mine? I am all of them. Covered in precious jewels, the murk of concealing mud, decaying flesh, holes that tiny fish live in. It’s me, all of it feeling God, the throne of earth’s reign. The poison that falls from the moon through the sky, into the swamp, into me. It doesn’t matter what you say or believe. It doesn’t matter, the swamp is not an after death experience, the white horse is. The swamp is an after life convergence of all the magical things said and done, all the mystical prophet’s deepest meanings. The darkest muse of the mindless knowers. I feel everything. There is no center to this circle, only a spinning downward blanketed by stillness and cool sheltering widow trees. There is all of me and none of me. Roots, the basket beneath the swamp, tangled poignant diggers going deeper into the earth than even I as the dearly departed cannot go without you.
I feel the blood dripping into the chalice, I feel the deep finger pushing, I feel the throat of the sky, the cloud of words between us. I feel the drum inside the water, sonic booming, rippling beyond appearance. I feel that which cannot be explained, poetry as disappearing as the winds that bring rain. There is nobody to know, dead body, bones wrapped in the shine of ancient sounds, the sounds that grow diamonds in caves. There is a cave below the swamp. There is a very old God who is also a child who lives within this cave. There is a goddess he sleeps upon and I know her. There is the water, filled with ancient forbidden light that shrouds them in mystery. A mystery so foreboding that they have been left all alone, undiscovered. A myth you might write about but never truly believe. Seeing is believing. It takes one to know one. It takes two to have the child that is deathless. It takes the child who is deathless to kill you beneath these waters if you ever expect to float in her hair, the long strands, the ropes of endless hangings. A drier death bereft of tears. It would take these things to go down, underneath me and know how I feel after the song leaves the room and the lights go out. There is yet, always the trickle of light from the roots, the expanding circle of dance that the dragonfly makes upon the swamp’s surface. The mound of dissolving leaves on the warm bottom of life’s pain and suffering. The endlessness of my love for anything still moving, which is you upon the the mountains and sky, falling rain. Water giving more of itself into the tragedy of becoming. The tragedy of leaving me here, floating, facing the bottom is that I could never see your eyes above me. I only knew the death of before, the past when everything closed. And so, the sacrament of now is that the swamp is here inside me, you. Everything closed is opening even evil and fear and the dread of her black body. I am white, like the horse. After death you will also find me. After the light you will also see me. After the breaking of love into tears you will also know my heart. Dirty, the filth of all. Pure, immaculate virgin flower. I mount the swamp, mouth open wide to the world of earth bodies and I bring down death as softly as the warm summer rain brings down the scent of God’s jasmine. This is the flower I told you about, ancient and perfect. Where nothing remains but emerald and jade. Where birds skim the surface and feathers fall like night bodies dreaming, where the child waits to be born in eyes made of stars. Where death makes everyone love til the light burns, flames of silence, white ash that fell into me. Where I feel what I am. Where you make me create oceans and skies just for the earth to have something to reach for, us. The depth of dark love is that there is nowhere to hide but beneath me. And I know everything and rings cover every finger with sparkles that tell how why and when the light will undress herself beneath the moon spirit and blow stardust into your eyes and fill you with the end of black tears. The end of black anything, the sticky tar wings of stealth. Trying to free me is like trying to find the point of the arrow. Freeing me is dripping with blood fearlessly found plunged by the sword of the secret flower’s divinity. Free to die and to rise like smoke, waves, moons, sun and the flower, you are my mouth and eyes. My thousand arms like the branches of the mother tree hold up the tiny birds until they are one with the sky. And when you remember you know why and when,

I am a bird too, made of you.

So feelings rise, fall. Sink, die. Give birth, make love, kill, eat. All for the tiny dream child. The holy old man…

The ancient forgotten bottom. Her, always her sending you dreams and song worlds to love her in, as deeply as death looks for rain in the swamp.

Mother wet with whatever you give her. Shining from a place so deep, you’ll keep trying, to become the smoke and rain of all that is…to know her is to to kill her. To become as one,

beneath the dark blanket of two…
you, until she’s gone away.

I am never dying.  Sharada Devi