blinded by the latest god

I feel like I know you so well I can practically put words in your mouth at this point…isn’t the purpose always accidentally swallowed like a pill we thought would help us but instead becomes a toxin that we can’t feel? In the center of the chaos the eye gripped the socket- and the appearance of things went blind long enough for me to finally see the one who shines…she wasn’t right for you anyway- it’s been too long and parts break, things get rusty…

and so I’ve seen that the way I float on top of you- is actually sinking us both -because the hole between us is too big -and the distance is seeping in from the bottom -and it’s almost too late… the isolation is rising from such a small hole- it only goes to become- become the writing on the wall- the prophecy of 1 plus 1 and what should we do to get inside of the thing we intend- the way that little words matter and become the raft that saves us from the need to get saved. It’s dangerous and you should know it. “I love you” is sharp and slippery  and so we usually drop it -and it breaks -and then these deadly words become lethal slivers of accountability- be careful if you don’t want to bleed everywhere alright? It’s like a dissection -and we don’t know what organ we’re supposed to remove so we just take it all? I don’t think so- the cadaver lays there spread open and panting -and all you can do is sharpen your stupid knife? Don’t be so dull- his roots are rotten to the core- she’s missing her lungs, she’s missing an eye, he’s missing a tooth- and either way- I’m missing you- because you aren’t here anymore- and it’s just a euthanasia of what was targeted suffering-and the prognosis was poor and the diagnosis were my medicine words that you didn’t hear -or you just simply erased from your memory- my breath on the page of your eyes – my very own soul into your mouth -you could have said it out loud and remembered, but you didn’t- and the web that holds all this lying and flirting -is just outside my door- hanging as my sister fury – she’s taking inventory – listening to old recordings of you- the spiders that weave the threads of our vessels are domain wary intrepid creatures- creative writers and alluring dancers. Did you know that these same spiders come to me and follow me around like my dogs do when they’re hungry? I’m telling you the truth- and I used to fear my spiders and this was a real relationship breakthrough- my spiders come while I sit meditating and they crawl in my lap- and yes, this makes it hard to feel spiritual- in the upright sense of the words -and I always have to keep one eye open- and I’m always waiting in a sort of devotional ambush for the next lusting spider to approach my lap and get on- this is my reference point- I think you know what I’m trying to say…

and last night I was all alone- and it was late -and I heard someone in the hallway outside my door. I didn’t open the door- I only held my ear to it so that I could hear the rush- the truest words are always hidden behind the pounding- and I love you is something we don’t need to say if it’s on our breath like strong whiskey- if we’ve been drinking what we believe in- I mean, love stings your throat and intoxicates your body- and doesn’t ever leave your door -even if you don’t answer- and I believe my love for you is a spider- and that spider wants you badly enough to spin that sticky web- just to catch you and consume you -or wrap you up for later when I feel like eating again…Posession is the entire law in my rule book⚡️

Personally though, I’ve always dreaded the idea of being eaten alive. I mean I’ve thought about it- and I’d rather be shot than drowned or burned upon the stake (again) and I’d rather have my neck slit than be suffocated and I’d rather starve myself to death than be eaten alive- how about you?

I think about these things- just in case they ever come up- I would like to be prepared- and  Bhagavan Das is always talking about what our tombstones should read- he once said mine should simply say, “WHY?” and maybe he’s right. I’ve driven him insane-always asking why- why? Because nothing makes sense -and I’d like to know why you love me -and why I should be eaten alive by the mouth of gravity -and why I’m here floating in trashed out space – and why we have clocks that break- and why you can’t make your bed like a big boy?

So if the shoe fits wear it -and when you say OM do you even know that if you just put a fan in your room on high (best setting for Om tones)
you wouldn’t even have to say it anymore- and it’s an efficient saint’s way to enliven the dulling humdrum monotony- or to lull a bleating sheep, or to tune up a bloated pig-they’re all inside after all singing our lives away- reminding us to keep the bag closed tightly- things get stale quickly when we’re not paying attention to the things we open-and lathering it up with hot soul butter – hoping she’ll be sucking you off in a sexless hurry- won’t stop her wrath -not even a little bit- she’s not seeking your pleasure – she’s seeking your treasure- and you just don’t know the difference- so “I love you” doesn’t count- plus you get what you’re looking for when you don’t aspire for much, like really low standards- and it’s kind of like a bad tatoo- you think it looks cool but no one else does- you don’t need to know why I’m saying all this –

“You just need to do what I say” and I’m a #1 hypocrite because I never give a why or a reason for anything I say or do- I change my mind instantly -if it doesn’t rhyme -and I hold my breath until you obey my command- even as I psychotically change directions- like a windstorm- because obedience as well as rebellion are ways for you to prove that you love me- and I’m not going to say which one fits where…let me have it my way- which is both ways in a nut shell. Like a crazy love song that gets written and never sung by the right person and so the desire never gets resolved or the union consummated -but you better just keep begging anyway…so be it. Haha⚡️

And I’m not cruel I’m just vicious. And I’m not unkind- just blood thirsty- there is a difference but don’t ask why- or what- because you’re not ready to know that designer fangs come in different shades of desire and a variety of methods to ease the pain. I do it all for you. My mouth is a vacuum and my hand is a noose.
These riddles are not meaningful to you are they? Too bad you delete my messages -and don’t take my basket of words to your real mother. Too bad you pulled out the arrow and didn’t say no fast enough- too bad you aren’t a faster talker and better with that gun…

My dogs seem to be the only ones who know when the sherrifs back in town- but BD thinks  I’m more like a lawyer or wonder woman- he actually prefers when I become the Wrathful Goddess of Death -after desire has eaten the fire- and I slam him up against the wall and put my hands tightly around his throat and I stare- my face really close to his face- my eyes like daggers -into his eyes- and I quietly say, “Do it now or I’ll kill you”  and his eyes get all watery with devotion and he smiles like he’s just seen God (me) and he just starts mumbling prayers- WELL, maybe next time he’ll wash his own dishes right?’ That’s all I was asking- too bad he makes me get rugged on him…

and that’s a true story. We have a lot of morbid and perverse fun around here and I love to tell you because I’ve got nothing to hide- nothing -but everything that’s still hidden from you -then I say nothing- and I wait for you to come touch my spider- and I’m even a mystery to myself- I just said to BD yesterday that the light is too bright in my eyes for me to even see anything – I’m just overtaken with this bright light- and I can’t see it because it’s too close and too deep -too bright to sleep- too bright to feel spiritual -or like I’m even doing something right or wrong- it’s hard to find the words to describe it- so I just keep talking- until Bhagavan Das says “That’s ok…”
and he got the vajra yogini statue out of the garage and gave it to me last night -because I said I became her in the temple- and was drinking blood out of the skull cup- I’m a heavy astral tripper without any psychedelics at all- and Bhagavan Das is my greatest fan (get it, OMMMM)

And then I spontaneously played that song and I don’t know why-what if God was one of us- by a prince who died-he was so sensual and recklessly divine -the perfection of a dying spider is the closest lover I’ve ever found…who knew me or saw me at all. So maybe you’re the bright light and now that you’re so close I’m blinded by the latest god…

because nobody else seems to be anywhere but here…

Sharada Devi

SUPERSHIT

There is a wise saying that goes, “Get your head out of your ass.” It always makes me want to cry -laughing to think that a head could get stuck there, because it can -and it does- and it’s a horrible fate- worse than a stick or a sliver that needs pulling – and in some cases desires shoving- but that’s another topics for discussion- for now, this head we’re talking about- it goes up there- gets stuck in the muck and starts thinking – dreaming it’s perversions and calamities away in a haze of excretion and a whiff of something that needs to go- to say it nicely- this is sad when you’re so full of shit- which is bad enough- but then you get so enamored by the scent and discomfort that you take it a step further and stick your head inside? You want to know how I clean the toilets?
Because that’s like palpable entertainment or a REALLY feel good day at the petting zoo -or puppy ballpark -isn’t it? Don’t you want to be clean? I mean for real this time- I could have helped you pull your head out -but like a tick sucking on my dogs neck- I’m afraid you have nothing else to eat -but your own waste and left overs…a night in hell…empty inside -but filled with wasted causes- sitting on a toilet seat- your head fully emerged- your eyes blinded by the obvious…it doesn’t have to be so lonely.

And we all have dreams about bathroom stalls and x rated movie theaters- it’s natural – and yet we still feel bad because we know that dead grandma’s watching- and we wish they would just stop making those
movies that stir all that poison- that make us hurt people -and start our throbbing head pulsating for more. Bombs are created to explode, and it’s bound to occur -and I hope for your sake nobody gets hurt. The shit is about to hit the fan- and I’m not the one whose it’s target-I learned about shit years ago and how to skillfully maneuver my way through its carnal desires- it’s subterranean wasteland- it’s human feeding ground- it’s funny how the tables turn-First we eat something terribly wrong to make this hardcore shit- and THEN-we can’t get it out- and THEN it morphs into a SUPER SHIT – which THEN becomes this huge DEVOURING CYBORG- who starts eating us from the inside- it’s possessing black magic body is formed of our disowned waste and our inability to push on through to the other side…in the world of the occult it’s called Shit Posession -the wrathful stopped up -pop off-and only an exorcism with extra strength laxative power will do…

It’s raining fire today because of me. I’ve got a plan to destroy The Shit Head for good. Just so you know, you are no match for me. I’m not afraid of touching the inside of the toilet- I’ll clean it with my hands or my sin seeking tongue- oh, “I’m so gross”- whine whine whine -that’s right I am- Grosser than your mind could EVER go. My creativity and lack of inhibition is an endless shit seeking godhead missile-sucking my way through overflowing sewage and septic tanks- stirring in this endless love at the bottom of fermented outhouses- the leaking body bags left in a hot room are like candy to me- I don’t have a problem with you at all- because I made the black and wild hose that sucks you dry -and I invented the sexy movie that suggests you stick your head in deeper and push just a little harder- high and higher up into your little feel good jerking pumping death-it’s so comical, watching from my side of this purgatory- you lost before you thought- that you thought- of this version of me. (as if I have a form at all) I did you already- so many boring and monotonous times- You jumped my train- and I took you for so many rides into what you were asking for- we should try something different -a new position- don’t you think? In a way though, you’re so brave, albeit stupid, to keep that feces face smiling- brown chunks in your teeth and all- and you know the rules of the slave system so perfectly-and you fit the pieces of your meaningless life into such a thoughtful mix of the modern masturbation handbook and the ancient ass fucking closet gay…I want you to know through thick or thin, you’ve always been here living in my mother light heart…you know that don’t you? I’m a saint living in the bleak -yet striving heart -of every shit eating lover boy. Every head too stuck to see that loves goes a long way  down the drain…love flushes the love and it always will. Don’t be afraid of your shit- like a frozen shitcicle.

Do you know why?
Because mommy loves you, that’s why.

I think you may suspect something is different now that you’ve arrived at my table. Dinner can be made from as many things as a new street drug can- I’ll feed you whatever I want. You don’t know what you’ve been eating even though your head is stuck and your eyes have nothing to do but examine the dish- you’re too intoxicated by the spell of my ruthless intoxication to even comprehend that I truly am the goddess who created the shit you can’t discard -and the perversions that made you the expert- like the book’s title reads,

“How to successfully get me off before I die”

Like I don’t already know your story. Like you aren’t already dead meat beneath my feet. Hahaha⚡️What a crock of shit. You can’t get off because you’re on -and for now it seems for good…your head is up there TIGHT. What a brown eye socket bookworm. What a bad odor from a hairy graveyard. Even then, I got inside, I made a new mess. Yes, you are my experiment- but without the toilet paper this time -because I’m taking it all away- making things a little more fun, more interesting…I know it’s going to be rough -but I’ve been nice enough- I’ve got smooth moves -it’s true- but I only ever had one thing in mind….

your shit head in the toilet.
Sharada Devi

SHAKTI

I’m just doing what I do. Life is like surgery- sometimes you’ve just got to do it and hope for the best. Some guy wrote several emails to the website today. He just can’t stop thinking about me, literally- obsessing over me- grinding his dirty, yellow teeth over what a slut, bitch I am- he doesn’t even have the balls to sign his name or leave an email- what a limp dick…sad…He really hates me. He doesn’t even know me, I guess he saw a few videos and read the blog- hahaha! He doesn’t understand anything -and his girlfriend probably just dumped him or thought he was gross and so wouldn’t give him a blow job- or his mom- whose basement he lives in -ran out of his favorite breakfast cereal- like fruit loops- this morning. Bad bad mommy- that’s how these things work- how my day goes…every day-push it into the one whose taking it -even if you’ve never met? It seems so- because you don’t need to know me. You don’t need to be a biter to have sharp teeth. This game gets so boring and predictable- for me anyway…don’t you think? I’m more of a hands on- and all the men who come around prefer to be angry- sky humping- mousy, hiding gimps -angry little cowboys riding atop their choice of a sex toy- and I’m not implying she’s an actual person either- The cowards locked in their bedroom while mommy makes dinner- and the way they bare their baby teeth, it’s a joke -and you know it’s true. This guy was vile and disrespectful – angry rapist prototype- But he shouldn’t choose me to fondle because you know what I’ll do…or maybe you don’t know what I’ll do -and maybe that’s the thrill. After all, we all want a little shake up every now and again don’t we? Anyway, isn’t there anyone out there who is different? How can we play a game if I always know your next move before you do? And you push me out onto the edge- and I’m sweet and caring and then I snap- like an inner automatic 3 strikes you’re out- mechanism. She is bigger than I am, my alter ego -who many of you have formed a love/hate affair with- and it’s amusing because if you find me so blasphemous and disgraceful why do you keep coming back for more? Why do you email me several times a day telling me how much you hate me? I’ll tell you why, it’s called DEVOTION – you prick. And I’ve got yours on a stick and you know you love me – and you’re just jealous of “pussy wiped” BD (yes I know you meant pussy whipped- learn how to spell ok?) because I “treat him like one of my dogs” – and shouldn’t you be so lucky?- my dogs are canine lords and they get kissed a million times a day by me, their beloved. And they eat better and smell better and are cleaner than you are- and I love them- who loves you? You are so spun out because your mommy never potty trained you. I love everyone. I’m not “the evil Kali” I’m not Kali at all. I’m a witch who spanks and consumes. I’m a bitch whose not taking no for an answer you poor little fellow.
I’m a goddess with a hard on -who never gets soft or intimidated by greatness (again, please contain the jealousy) I’m too much for you and I feel sad that you’re so shook up -and I just want to say, life is tough guys- when we can’t deal with our lust for power, prestige and control. And there’s no quick fix for your sexual inadequacies -because they’re all in your stuttering, sputtering mind and your head is loose and your “special hand” is calloused- get it? Stop choking the monkey and get down on that brain trash – that makes you hate people like me who talk out loud- and aren’t passive aggressive -and are honest -and who care enough to write about this dilemma- the dilemma of boy man vs. sexy angry mommy- and yes you did want to fuck her and you know it. Why does everyone lie and hate me because I don’t?
I love you, you know. And that makes you angry also because that’s not how it’s supposed to work right? Because sexy women are vain bitches who only want money and the souls of men- and that makes it easier to manage doesn’t it? So you target me and try to get me back in my place? He’s 30 years older than me- I respect every word he says- and I also respect every word I say. I’m not stupid because I’m not ugly- and because I’m not ugly doesn’t simply make me a dick sucking, soul devouring, gold digging whore- so be nice to mommy or I’ll have to get the belt out. Don’t make mommy beat you ok? Just get down on your knees because we both know what you want…
and then if I want any lip from you, I’ll scrape it off my zipper.

This is a BIG spiritual teaching.
*I’m it.
SHAKTI.
Sharada Devi

phurba of vajrakilaya

Sex is death and everyone wants to be god. This isn’t about pleasure or position. This is about pulling rank, getting fed and disappearing fast and hard. This isn’t a come on, this is a profound and sacred spiritual teaching. Everything I’ve ever said to you meant so much more than you’ve understood. I slipped the drug into the dark side of the moon. The unseen side of you knows the proposition. I see you in my reflection- otherwise I wouldn’t ever know what to say. There really aren’t too many interesting ways to approach the simple secrets. I entertain you as I entrain you and slowly the obvious grows…what do you think I want?

Well it’s not what you’re thinking. I have a vivid imagination and so I can say it in so many ways-how to twist the lid, unzip the bag, screw the thing together, get off at the right stop- how to do what you came to do- and if not now, eventually…the rope doesn’t get any looser and the devil doesn’t ever eat himself out of this one.

Don’t be afraid of my twin sister ok?

I never threaten or deceive -and I also never move against the wind. I won’t force you into position and I also won’t pull the trigger for you.
I won’t make this all about getting off and I could care less if you ever get on…I won’t help to create another limp cripple and I won’t be your slave until death do us part. There is a queen who lives on the other side of town but nobody knows she is royal but me. She keeps her crown in a box in the closet downstairs and she fixes things and sweeps the porch. You wouldn’t recognize her because you’re not looking for her and the saddest part is, she is your mother.

So you can fuck the ice all the way home- and you can swear at the car in front of you that never moves fast enough -and you can beat her ass with the best whip you’ve got -and you can hang him from the meat hook in the cellar -and you can write me a poem and then burn it in hell- and we can both see the story but be on different pages…

this is something you should know…

right before she died she hid the sacred words beneath a giant rock way up on the side of a smoky hill that overshadowed an empty valley- the valley where she lived -and it was a crevice in the once pure land -where nobody went because the air was too heavy with hungry ghosts…and she was very old and she thought, “One day he will find me here as the moon is turning- and when he hears the words and lifts the rock -I’ll come back again swooping down for his throat as a hungry black vulture with a red shiny face…and because he will understand the message in my shrouded words, he’ll recognize me this time around the sun- and the words will take a tangible form- and I will move my feminine shape into her formidable, achieving body -and I will inhale his heart and he will become the phurba of vajrakilaya -the king slayer of the coming doom -and I will overshadow him always as the one who gave direction- and he will carry my rock on his back -and I will be there always as a beautiful body of dreams whispering in his ear where to touch me next…

and the story doesn’t end here…

because after she foretold the prophecy she went to lay beneath the last tall tree as night was falling- to welcome her death as the next doorway to the endless sky…and just as she exhaled for the very last time, she heard the same song in the wind that blew through the valley on the day she was born -and someone was coming to take her away from the known and the knower…

” I wasn’t old anymore and he laid on top of me like a dark blanket -and I opened my eyes and the night was a glowing black onyx – a swirling velvet- a finally touchable god -countless stars were piercing -throbbing- diamond lights- dripping an indescribable bliss into my immortal body- and the fertile moon was a great pulsing pearl oozing in the fullness of our total embrace…dissolution and absolution…

love making is death…

then the story snapped-and the world retracted- and together we fled the coming dawn…into what is known as the last second before release…

And it’s always above us, what I’ve just said. And they’re always reaching for this…and that’s what tantra is. Sex is death -and death is her life becoming you.

So don’t beat around the bush.
Hahahaha⚡️💀⚡️

Sharada Devi

the money you don’t have

Can’t you walk through the fire? I can’t always hold your hand. I write without guile to you and I look into your childish eyes when you say, ” I love you” I give you everything and I ask for nothing really…I wish you would listen- or hear me- but I know you’re so far away from me now and any imagination can become her body and any fantasy can become her golden voice…but for you- to love the bone that breaks, I become a mortal, a weak human -with a story to tell -so that we can be together, and move into the pieces that didn’t ever fit before. And you “love me,” you say over and over- but your love isn’t real- because you turn overnight like a bruised piece of fruit or a cold distant gaze after sunrise. I’m not stupid, I know what a groupie is. I sacrifice myself upon the altar of possibilities-not for myself-because my life is over – I’ve seen too much of the other side to ever wear a wedding ring- so you misunderstand my hugs and my soothing- and you don’t hear my voice in your ear breaking the lie that hates you- and you don’t taste my tongue swallowing your dark face. I love your misuse of the word “love” because it reminds me of a child learning to read…but honestly I’m not above the law- and it still hurts to be hit by swollen fists or frozen shoulders. Bhagavan Das said, “Once you have sex with a groupie it’s over immediately -and all they ever want is to get into your pants and it’s done and it’s really hard to deal with”…and I’m not calling you a groupie -but metaphorically I feel like a whore. It’s such an angry thrust that burdens your best intentions- which I feel would be more honest if you’d actually just do it- but instead you tip toe around puppy dog style -that raging intent -until you can’t take another bite with those fangs- or another drop of her blood from your smile-and then you shoot your white venom right into my face. I know I’m sexy- and so maybe everyone thinks it’s a free for all- or that I’m for sale – I throw myself at you, on top of you- on purpose- it’s my plan to break this open- one way or another- and it’s not my age or my appearance that makes me who I am- it’s a motor that never stops revving, it’s the secret of the sexiest virgin. It’s about the generation of veneration and appreciation for the gift of the real rub- silver skin on silver skin -my light on the windowsill that dances…a song still singing itself in your head when you wake up in the morning…I’m not going to hurt you, I’m only going to pull the plug and let you drain into the ground of perfection- and how is it done when you hate your mother so much? When you must control the output so rigidly -so psychologically blunted by the death of the mind -who can’t see or understand why she should have her way with you- so much so- that a violent, sweaty hand job and a reeling mind fuck does the job every time – makes you as blissful as hell right? -and yet the boy demon is still starving for the virgin bride. You just can’t get enough of nothing sacred can you? I’m not stupid. I know you hate her because you wanted her and you hate him because it was all wrong and yet that naughtiness forbidden was filled with the only reason to get in that hot bath tub at all…right? Didn’t I already say that you don’t listen- so do it your way. Blame me, belittle me, tear me apart, treat me like I’m just a page that you’ve  already read or a song that gets old -and so you just think that you can turn down the volume after an hour or so- well I won’t always be here- it’s not an open invitation. I have given you what you need freely. I don’t get properly paid or adequately laid or spiritually saved or even truly loved. I get left for a dead bitch because that’s what groupie do- I asked Bhagavan Das, “Who isn’t a groupie that you’ve ever known?” and he said, “Just you” And I said , “Why? What’s the difference between me and what I do and what groupies do?” He said, ” I tried to push you away and you would never leave and you stayed through the hardest times and you would never go no matter what I said or did to you- and after we had sex you still loved me and groupies never do. You can’t be a human around a groupie- they want to fuck whoever is on stage so they can be god- and it never works..” I was like, “That’s so sad. I didn’t know…”and he said,” I know. It’s really sad….”
Well I know that sounds horrible and I did stay with him -and he was so mean to me -and I did it because of my ideals and my devotion to the Guru. I have no life without my service to the truth. I cannot live without an object for my devotion- And it’s not BD who made me who I am -because I fought fire with fire- and I came from out of the dead back into life not because I’m so great -but because I threw myself into the fire for Bhagavan Das – I took his karma as my own- I laid down my life- so that the Guru would never die. My body means nothing without the love for God that moves me- because in reality – I’m a real downer, a masochistic, suicidal, extremist maniac- but because of my past lives- the love of God moves me to forget my pitiful loser self -and give and give and love and love-even though I know you’ll leave -because you’ll never see me until you love me as I have loved him- and as I love you- which is without bone or bondage- it’s a space of total surrender and it’s a painful burn- burning alive in the tragedy of separation – so that we might merge when she touches us – so that when she breathes down our throat we will not resist the heat – it’s love when it’s beyond our ability to stop the fire from consuming us entirely- and orgasms – and suffocation -and lustful fulfillment -and skillful french kissing- do not compare to the total consumption at the entry into the realm of her blessed pure heart- entry from the front or the back is not the issue – I’m sorry you take me all wrong, it’s out of my hands that you’re still looking at the back of my head- I fell at your feet and you kicked me. I’m sorry you’re jealous and angry, I know it’s bitter the way she keeps leaving… I’m sorry you take everything personally because it’s not about us or our bodies my sweetheart- it’s about your sexy perfect soul that came to me and got naked so that I could be the first to see you and appreciate your Godhood with every scared beat and with every strained breath. With every hard stroke and every soft hug. I only see our binding love eating heaven’s fire. And how and when or why never mattered. All that matters is in your eyes. All that you say isn’t in your words but in the sound of your voice. So get as vile and encroaching -and as quiet and rejecting -and as polite and obliging as you want. I’m not stupid remember? And I’m not a doormat and I don’t wait on anyone hand and foot- I serve your starving soul the food of mother light because I’ve always loved you and I always will. I reveal the ways the enemy wins -because this is after all, a game- and I am on your side. This is after all a shove into manhood- and a lift into the light of she who carries the weight of the world in those places you would never think to look. That’s right, she knows everything that you don’t say and still she loves you anyway. So bend over backward -or just bend forward and take it like a trooper – it’s all just a laugh and a stroke of good luck looking for virtue…

I’m not stupid remember?
I told you, I’ve got your number…
and I’m laughing all the way to the bank…with the money you don’t have.
Hahahaha⚡️❤️⚡️
Sharada Devi

rainbow rock

*Sorry in advance for any vulgarities or false assumptions I may make- and don’t think I’m talking to you directly- so then you won’t get offended- and we can stay feathered friends ok?

I keep trying to tell you how I feel, as if you might be the first to know my plight- but it’s like calling into a paper bag waiting for the content to answer back- and then the remedy just becomes the sorrow -or instead of just throwing up all over you- rejecting whatever’s been taken in- it’s like vomiting a scathing pitchfork in poisonous words -taking you to a hungrier hell with me- hinging on famine and consumption of rotten things- purging all remaining desire to ever eat again…and you’re still hungry even then…we both are.

I wanted to love you, I really did -and I do truly love you- but what does it even mean? I don’t like to feel used because I know that it’s a poison
bordering on selfish delusion based on my buddhist ideal- the relic of the jesus fish – the pisces with the holy bone who may have understood after all, the bodhisattva semi- masochistic long arm of the selfless law- that says, “There is no me”

There is only the mind’s imagination and the clear blue light of the perfectly balanced mirror. And so -because it then becomes impossible for a vulture to swoop- I see that it’s nobody’s fault but mine, me the one who rips open the guts of the lonely and left sided carcass- me the one who tears out the heart when there’s no beat left but the deep fist of the hot clock through the mattress -I theorize that I must understand this and therefore acquiesce in sheer defeat- for this implies that the masses are on their way and I’m only one cross with one head- and yet the heaviness of what you do to me doesn’t subside, the feeling of being used-of no love unselfish- no wise word of god- no eyes of anybody who can ever free me from this perfectly square cage- where I only fight myself in every blind corner-because now I know it’s my personal condition-I’ve been self diagnosed – I get it- ok fine. So when you say, “Oh lord my mind is so fucking busy…” What the fuck would you know- you’re reading it back to me right?

It’s only natural that someone’s got to be on top -and generally speaking -I’d like it to be me -but since I’m jaded -I’m not even that interested in engaging anymore, I’m old news in more ways than one. I’m weary- and as Bhagavan Das would say – complaining is my specialty. What will you do? Put me down? Critique me? Use me to get to Bhagavan Das? Call me an alpha female? NO. I said I’m an alpha male because basically I have been abandoned by any hint of a man no matter which way I look- so now, out of necessity I’m wearing my very own dick – with a nipple in my hand and a lightening bolt in my pants- and you shouldn’t judge me for it either- like its something I did wrong- that maybe I’m not helpless and girly enough or whatever – I don’t have time to be pathetic just to make men feel better about what they’re missing- and have you got a problem with that? With me? Is it really my fault? Like you would know the answer- well, hahaha to that! How do you think I feel? I feel like buckling, collapsing this bridge that crosses nothing and lands nowhere and I’m thinking of just starting over…but would that even work- since all roads lead back to you right my feathered friend? And so nobody loves me. Poor poor me. Well, that’s right -and fuck you too. That’s all I want to say…

and on top of that- yes it’s me again- I would like to add- that I feel as grand as any animal saver, any sacred vegan, any christian giving away sweaters in the winter- I’ve got something important to tell you. I know a lot. My mind is super agitated and ready to swing at the first ball – it’s called ‘the bodhisattva who looked both ways before crossing anything you’ve got to say about how this works.’

If you want to copy me go ahead- but it won’t work. If you want to condemn or ridicule me -go ahead- it won’t work. If you want to accept me and love me as you love yourself- go ahead -it won’t work. If you want to embrace me in the dark room where we’re bound to meet- go ahead and give it a try…because I am always there for you even at my own demise. I lay myself down like that bridge over troubled water they sing about- so that you can walk all over me -and you can break my bones -and my life mud oozes out of my mouth as these useless meandering word- and even the untouchable troll that lives beneath my bridge ignores me…and I’m this lone wolf martyr totally spent and unforgiven- full of judgment and opinion-seething with lust and compensation- speaking only the words of the Great Ego Mother- who laid too many eggs and now must deal with it…

so I see that I’m stuck with you -and poor you that all we have right now is this screen where we keep meeting. I meant to stroke your worried head -but probably only turned you on and left you hanging- and I meant to show you that it’s going to be ok -but probably only showed you what a narcissist with a computer and a grandiose complex can do with a willing psycho- and I know I’m insane. I’m not just yanking my own chain either -and the ONLY reason I EVER liked you was because you were a throw back, a mistake when a mold goes bad- a leak in the river – a total mess of life. Yes, because I’m not waiting for a towel to wipe you up with, I’m letting you drain-all over me- and what a sinner the saint can be when she knows exactly what she’s doing and does it anyway. And what a saint the sinner can be when he loves me because I’m taking his every dark breath back into my body just to free him from me. It’s her memory that wrote you the love song that makes you cry. You’re only crying because you’re finding the tears you never loved her with the first time around- and you aren’t listening to the reasons why the second time- and so “I love you” now is like throwing a boomerang laced with arsenic- you should really mean what you say..and you should really drown hard and fast into what you feel – or you will only be left with the dry confusion of the vow that leads to a bullet in your sharp shooting head.

And it’s obvious that I’m misunderstood and the real meaning of my every word and deed is misinterpreted or simply overlooked -but you get the idea that I can’t be a web forever. It’s not my desire to catch you since I’ve kind of lost my appetite- and I’m not currently  collecting corpses for later- really, I’m only going through the motions at this point- and I know it’s not good to spin this way. I’ve lost my inspiration to trap you in my sticky silken love.
I’ve lost the desire to expire at your holy feet. I’ve lost the loss of losing you…

and I’ve found the finding to be obsolete -as my arms have always held you as my beloved darkness…

the dark lord’s light home.

And maybe I’m lost even with you here and maybe I’m proving my own point. Listen to me because I have nothing to say without you…and thank you for everything…and I need nothing from you…and all words eventually become lies if I say them enough…and Om Mani Padme Hum could be a bruise that reminds us of the last hit from a lost love-the very last time I looked into your rising eyes and disappeared forever into the body of black light cast by the rainbow rock…

this is a love that leaves no stone unturned- hard as a rock or not…
Sharada Devi

the empty bone of gone

The rain was falling as I walked alone into the woods. The rain was cold and sharp. The woods were a funnel pulling me into an obsession, a cluttered and primitive orifice yielding only me as its enticement. Did I say something to make you think that the trees grew in a straight line or that the wild flowers didn’t bite? I’ve known this place deep in the back of my self as somewhere I could always go to find you. The fatal pull of the last who meets the first. The last breath as I pull my tongue out of your throat. And I’m not some tortured writer attached to a product or a stance. I sit upon the wet dirty earth staring at an open hole and I write letters to the ghosts that watch me and who think that I don’t know them already. I pretend to guess where they might be headed or what they might want from me, but I always knew you like the back of my mirror. The other side would show your face but the back is just black with promise of who you might be. Whoever I am- is what I mean -and the woods have a bottomless pond that I go to when I’m missing you- and I sink to the bottom of the world thinking of the words to say so that I can float back up and be the first to call the open sun back home…the only problem is that the murky gesture of something that might be rising always gets in the way and makes us want more than we have. I thought you might be the ghost who my hand wouldn’t go through. I can’t touch you…because you’re just a misty haze inside my rabid mind stream and I was looking for the leak and only found the hole. So I’m rushing into the woods-moving unalarmed- because I have nobody else- no other arm, no more words to help ease the pain of my disappearance -only a limp and a lie as I stumble forward groping the musky floor for your face.
Don’t you see me at all yet? I’ve been skirting the outline of the summary of how blood meets sky just for you- what needles to use to make fresh marks – what tracks to follow – what holes to dig- but you never left to do any of it – you just remained a shadow -staring at a trace of where I used to be. And there aren’t anymore blue eyes, only dried out sockets empty of your watery gaze- and so I keep my focus upon the words I never used, the letters I let fall to the ground in a hint of a trail just behind me. I meant to say more but never knew how. Ghosts don’t speak for themselves – they’re just made up words held in a mouth that no longer kisses or prays. The eating mouth of my words that are too hard to swallow…so you dangle as swinging limbs from a tree as I come looking for you- and I never saw you above me -watching me from the branches of her claws. Roots end in claws -just like the first becomes the last.

I was circling before I came here. Looking for a place to land. To be meaningful beneath the clouds. To not see and yet to keep looking. And that’s what this is, and we’re slicing ourselves either up or open. Does it even matter that our bodies were not real and never touched at all? Well I think it matters and that’s why I’m here in the woods headed toward your hollow…my open arms reaching up from the mound to embrace you forever in autumn’s bright death.

Is there a seeker and something to search for…I don’t think there is. Are we cursed as the haven we commenced from…I don’t think the romance would leave us bound. I think the woods howl to the haunted to enter the dusk like a vulture would enter the dawn. You do belong here no matter what they say…and our shells are given to each other so that someone might echo through us and make us feel alive again. We would do anything to be real, to be touched, to be heard. We would do anything to let love into the brutal hunt of the circling fog bodies. We would write and cut and kill the water to get inside just one more time. We would call the woods a fatal attraction and then bring her flowers on the side. We would say he was a ghost and then suck his head to death.

We would be me –
with nothing left but slivers of mirror beneath my feet- wandering -aimless- bloody footprints all alone upon the widow earth looking for a deeper you with every worded step. And even though I know you don’t see me and you can’t hear me I still hand you the knife and say, “Go”

We only have this defeating love. Make me go away. We only have the gasp of a gripping God. We only have the empty bone of gone.

Gone Gone Gone
the beyond…

are you with me or not?
Sharada Devi

THUNDER THIGHS

I wrote a whole blog in my sleep last night. I read the entire thing on a screen in my mind right before I woke up in the dark early morning. It was really good writing -too bad I don’t remember any of it…

I do remember thinking that I wish you were real so I had someone who could strike back…I guess I’m really into conflict as a deep psychological spur to my creative process…always rubbing those thighs…who wants to live without heat, be like super mister or miss cool all the time? Not me. I mean, actually I am cool all the time but in a really hot sort of way…hahaha!!!

you know who you are🔥

Bhagavan Das said something to me just now and I replied,” that’s a good line, I like that.” He said to me, “…oh, yes she does…she wants to get her hands on those inner thighs of you…”
(I have admirers💋)

That really says it all. And I’m in both compliance and agreement. Bhagavan Das says I am flirting. I don’t think I’m flirting -I think I was just born as the essence of what a “come on” is- the embodiment of the act of flirting- not an action but a presence- like it’s an invitation to get warm. I have a lot of one liners too-just like a guy at a bar- they all work for me. I get everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I am the creator of one liners- and mine are poetic and make you feel special – inner thigh style-like nobody has to know we went there…ok sweetie?

Also I am 100% sincere. The surge of the mystic is that someone else should be the cushion. Soft and obliging with holy words and cooing. Nothing matches the player if there isn’t a field, catch my drift? It’s a tight handshake- the agreement we make to destroy each other. You call it flirting Bhagavan Das? I call it the strategy of the Lady on Top- we all know who she is- silky thighs, butcher cleaver and all!

And I just write and ramble real subtly to distract you while I head for that goal- your head!- and possibly elsewhere depending on my mood…hahaha…and I don’t mean to be redundant or boring- cliche -like a tight rope walker always getting laid- but no, I’m supposing to make you see my heart in all its many soothing layers- while I fix my sights on that target moving slowly up my leg like a hungry little flea…See? There isn’t anything but this love so Big and Ready -and it doesn’t matter how you label it or express it – it’s real- and my inner thigh just said so! Swat!

What else is there to talk about? I’m tired of talking, let’s DO the word! Let’s drink that poison- drown in that intoxication of the jubilation of annihilation! But, no…you think I’m just another player- and don’t know that I am actually running the gamut – THUNDER THIGHS THAT BOOM! Hit the earth! BOOM!!!

I’ll shake you HARD! Go ahead, get inside…I’ll let you win for a minute…time is on my side remember? And do I prefer the ones with the warmest hands? No! Think again. It’s a riddle straight to the middle. ZZZ =THE END. No more letters…no more words…just the touch of ZZZ. I didn’t say XXX- and that’s because mine is a whole new level- a different floor…AFTER the after hours- was that elevator going up or down? Were you looking when you pushed the button??? Hahahaha. I don’t think you were…

Who cares, I’ll take care of you…
just spread on that butter because I’m hungry. Why is Bhagavan Das always wrong I wonder? Oh! I know – because I’m ALWAYS RIGHT! But I move to the left like a sidewinder- so it’s confusing. Like I said, THE GAMUT.

Read between those lines. The words spoken from between those thighs. Peach Heaven and The Queen has arrived with the Pie…

My Mom emailed me this morning about my blog- and said she thinks you may think I’m serious -and she thinks it’s so funny. Hahaha!
You see? A Peach doesn’t fall far from the tree…

This is how we talk to each other, it’s the best way- undressing in this dance of mimes- words can mean so many things- but I think I’ve made it quite clear that we only stumble because we don’t mean it when we speak them. Heavy handed my letters to you, solemn with each whim of the pen. I see you before me and I write the whole story- everything and everybody that I am, I eventually step on and mostly just squash even the most well meaning guts out -inevitably, you will be beneath me – and sooner than you think. Thunder thighs rule this roost. And I know we can’t always say it like we mean it. And I see that my adorable flirting and inherent implication is like a girl child picking a flower for the boy child she loves…but boys don’t usually love flowers, but isn’t she just darling anyway and isn’t that why he loves her…thats ME. I’ve got all the bases covered for whoever you are. Just order me up online- however you want it dished out- we’ll get you there, no problem…

so my hungry, vicious, climbing fingers pluck the chord of THE COME ON- and it’s the sound of two yearning hearts touching – which is only if you open your ancient soul and hear me COMING ON TO YOU in the peace filled silence of the innocent gift of my eternal windswept love…

its that rush of blood to his cheeks as she hands him her life in the form of the rose that tells her how sweet the sound of two hearts touching can someday be…and it’s that same rush of blood that makes me lick my lips!💋

the inner thigh of the softest skin…
the sun could be rising soon…
there is no time to waste my beloved.

When I woke up up after reading the blog -I woke up inside of a dream and I still had an oval around my head. The quiet murmur of my lover lying next to me still sleeping inside the hue of my body sent me right through the moon roof. Then the chamber door opened and a clear chilling light came through his eyes and so I came back down. “Tinderbox, who turned the knob, why won’t you just forget I’m here?” And in the whisper of the lullaby’s shiver I let him in once again- because there is a promise that I made long ago to those deep blue tears -dripping from the depth of his being-the searching light -quivering waves of me-upon the ceiling of this sea- the night churning urchin, under these blankets- saved by this body of our mingling stars, under this milky soft water of together forever…

because we cannot breath when we are apart -sure it’s a little codependent- this eternal
love -hood…and so then, we also feel that something or someone is drowning as we lie here together…hahaha – so sexy the gamut…and as you can see, I make it so that we’ll never be wrong! No, BD, I’m not flirting again- I’m just delivering the dream…honestly.
Don’t, don’t, you want me? Don’t you want me baby? Admit It.
You know the song…

I think this is it. I’m in this dream and you are my big magic dragon who lives by the love sea. And I’m the fire coming out of your mouth and we own this dream. It’s finally ours…
why wake up…

Hahahaha!
The secret of the smoke is that someone else should be the fire. The secret of your roaming hand is that it needs somewhere warm to go…so I can be like that picture with footprints in the sand and the person was having a hard time and they thought God left and abandoned them -and the voice was like “No, look at the footprints in the sand- God didn’t let go of your hand- God was carrying you…”

So sweet.

Well, THAT’S ME. SWEET AS A PEACH. Have a little trust, peach lips…

come into my dream and I’ll fade into you faster than you can see the color of my three eyes…I’ll spin red spirals into your every crevice and roar of mad heat…because In my dream dragons can roar by the way…and I have an entire herd of them- or maybe it’s a legion- and in my dream I’m always smiling and wiggling my hips because it gets the job done the fastest. It’s called efficiency -plus I’m a workaholic- GOAL oriented- and always the first one to arrive…

so you can call it flirting if you want Bhagavan Das, I call it mimicking Godhood…just like that hooded cobra sitting behind Buddha when he got enlightened. I am Buddha’s Cobra.
The Lady on Top just waiting…

STRIKE!
Sharada Devi