raven soul

no one ever made it to their soul alive…

so let the tired bird fall from the sky, let the old castle crumble, be somewhere else upon the briar- tear your tendon from the bone. It doesn’t matter what I say, what I write drifts down to earth sheer and so, unseen -and all of my words touch the bottom of you and then they emerge from the deepest place you are- even if you don’t remember me I find the lost letters and I write the last book. Thrown to the ground from the femme fatale of crooked things- are the little fears and consequences -she who shakes rattles from wrath and breaks open old bottles also brings the two ends to meet. And so the cloudy remains that let the day hang barely seen by the dreamers and the homeless, become the next sleepless night under blankets in a room never warmed by the morning…

I didn’t plan on an execution, things happen, we lose our head, it’s the aftermath that is feared the most…because when the story resumes, we start looking again and she’s on our heels loudly with warning sounds of harnessed thunder. Don’t get in the way of yourself…it’s dangerous, little things bite.

I was hearing all these voices as I walked through a graveyard in the backwoods of North Carolina. It was old and gray and the grass wasn’t tended. There were tall stooping gnarly trees and in the tree closest to me sat a large shiny raven. “What is your name?” The raven asked. “I don’t know, I’m just here accidentally…looking around.” “It’s no accident.”said the raven “I’ll bet you’re tired of dying.” “I am” I said as I looked the raven in the eyes, gleaming golden reflecting eyes. “Where is your nest?” I asked “I don’t have one…I’m not really even here” the raven said…

I am confused by my malady as I stare into the raven’s hypnotic eyes…

and I’m there- and the walls wear thin and the floor boards creak as the embodied memory walks slowly down the hall towards me. These ghosts never leave, they just haunt the cobweb closets and cold crevices, they groan from the damp cellar, they cover ancient birds with sordid desires and they never set us free from the weighted branches we cling to. “I thought we came to make amends?” I asked the raven as she opened her violet black wings. “There is no such thing” the raven said,
“Only callouses and cheap red wine” and the shimmering invisible bird flew away over the graveyard and into the gray distant clouds.

All alone I matter most to me…

crawling to my shelter somewhere deep inside, the place forgotten- and so where home resides is in smoke as it rises, not in the earth. And I wondered how I even found the ground I feed, a body without any wings and a face without forgiveness. I see their names but I never knew them. “From here to there” it says as if the count is on. The torture wells inside my stomach like waves about to break and the little steam worms wiggle and the leaves rot on the vine. I never meant to be a number inside a box. I never meant to shut out the sky. I never meant to see this place filled with birds upside down as the rotting forgotten, flipped from here to there as if someone’s in charge. “Why don’t you know me?” I whispered to the lost raven as I opened my talons and dug into flesh as wood. “Why don’t you know me?” a voice whispered back.

I am alone and enchanted by my own seduction. Dig deep into me, claws down the spine. The sound of silence all around. It’s too late to expect anything more. Do you know that the femme fatale of crooked things give every storm a name? I can feel a storm brewing from the cracks in my veins, from the chasm of breath upon fire. “They’re all dead anyway so it doesn’t matter” I thought as I vexed my shallow condition east to where things always begin…and I remembered how the bright diamond sparkled in your eyes before every great encounter…

a storm is born without a name and for the first time I am breathless. Filled with lightening and premonition, I am a bottomless omen without feet or hands to keep me. I feel the rain falling lightly upon the haunted and I just know she will wash it all away. For inside every crumbling castle is a crippled bird, and like me, we hear you calling. “Up here, come back, don’t let me disappear”

The dreamers and the homeless casting wet and heavy shadows into one another… until underneath me are pools filled with murky and magnetic waters…pulling me to humming graveyards and crooked chainlink fences and i wander and i wonder who died….

“i’m looking for you.” i’m looking for you..” “i’m looking for you…”

don’t forget me little one who never found the water. I am behind you like a storm long forgotten. I am ahead of you as falling tears for your lost raven soul…

who weeps without a sound and haunts us all with every breath…who churns the night sea and spills the last drop…who always comes when you thought she forgot you…

hail the bird who brings the last storm home…raven soul,
Sharada Devi

2:48 a.m. 1/20/17

These people worship her as the moon, they themselves, being her light. I worship her as you and then again back to me- you lunge like a shark at the blood in the water-striking deep at nightwounds that only I can see. I used to be alive in that world you thought was ours, In that world where it mattered if we sank. A blue eyed holy mother who chases her tail, whipping the void as she thrashes. I can’t swim, I can only float, face down in the soma, dripping wet with me. As dead as dull flesh torn from matter, the sky barely lit while she stares down at dawn. These people are her bottles of moonshine. And people aren’t real, they’re only mistaken, for where we fear to go -is back. The magnet of the beast who rules these waters pulls blank, soft celled corpses from her web, the crimson womb, sticky and bright. From where these waters arise they become separate and hunt the skies for more of her. Drunk on seance and the purple haze, dreaming the sequence of her phases, I drop the anchor into my hot chest and rip my heart to pieces. Don’t leave me, we have somewhere to go. The lost barracuda, the tripified snake, the word doesn’t have to be a word. Splashes and backlashes, the honey waters of home. There are craters in the moon from the fist who enters slowly, pulling two legs, its breach, its phallic. The worn testimony, the way you look at me, the water stains on the mirror-I remember nothing but anguish. Shooting flashes through the sky, a brave and wild stag flies into me like this happens every day. And her memory collapses, and the early beings are awoken. The stash of another drone, the drug of another species, the pulse of leaving on the wind. Drawing circles we can’t see, a huge net drudges for whoever’s left. I told you, people aren’t really real, it’s staged, it’s a mistake. We’ve been forgotten by our maker-the wagging tongue that licks the marrow, the leviathan of a sister realm. The stars are fixed and she will come again dragging the reins behind her. Drinking herself like you weren’t even there, just a fixture in the bible. To give her new seed, to blow up in her mouth. A revelation, eyes that saw the furrow of the great. Leadbelly. Heeling at her feet. Something else besides tomorrow will come again. Sometimes I see what I used to have and I wonder who you are. I remember the black fire spitting back like we were wrong, I remember being hungry and thirsty. I remember hiding from that light that approaches anything that breathes. I’m not afraid but the blue steam rises anyway- and the chirping is perfectly timed so that we have no idea when she’s coming back to find her moonshine. The worms crawl through her and she’s made from tiny holes that we can’t see. The worms become her. We should be careful who we give our hearts to, where we stick our key. I feel there is “some thing” that feels me and it is bigger and terrifying and moving downward. The spiraling quickens and the screws go madly into body parts that are open.
“Calling all vessels! Calling all vessels!” She’s looking for a man. Holy white water, I’m not alone. Pieces of you have been found everywhere and I’m getting dressed as fast as I can. They are entering from every side, surrounding us with electric wires and burning stakes. I hear them crashing like waves onto the shore. She is coming. And it’s for sure this time. Into her mound of ecstasy the night crawlers burrow for more…

When I was 29 I cut off all my hair one day so that it was only about 1/4 inch long. I meditated for 10-12 hours a day and consequently went just a little bit insane. I could hear them tapping always to get in, you know those “things” that make you crazy. There was a big black hole I would slip into at night. I was afraid by now. Because I know too much this time- and the truth’s a scary bitch, she really is, it’s true. The wind chimes were telling me things that I didn’t need to know and the little piranha that live inside the shallow astral space were gnawing at my heart all the time. The devil would whisper into my ear that he was going to kill me and everyone else was giving me information to store…what couldn’t be held in the crystals I would later discover, was the greatest secret of all, put into me like I was a vault. Don’t believe me, they knew you’d say that too. None of it makes sense. The devil is real though, that’s for sure- and he’s friendly until you ignore him…but he’s not what you think, because there’s more than just one devil- there are billions of devils…and she devils and baby devils too. I know what’s on your mind, I’m a diamond that’s filled with the sky. They’re there, in the sky watching. The moon isn’t real and neither are people. There is only the sky and the water. The knower and the known. What’s being viewed is a bad memory of the way we were. I know something big. The diamond is the body that can’t be destroyed by the worms. Covered in holes, it’s almost too late. The crafts that hover above us are filling the atmosphere with a protective humming to block the high whistle that breaks open our fate. There are those who plan to destroy us or consume us- then round up our souls and put us in the dungeons of a place that we dare not name. The waves are pulling the people underneath and dimensions are cracking and doors that should remain closed have opened. Take heed. She’s big and cold and doesn’t have any preference. She’s intelligent and hollow, eternally combustible. She is a terror born of nothing and beyond touchable.

The prophecy has a cover.

Summoned by the will of the many lords who guide us.

2:48 a.m. 1/20/17
Sharada Devi


I am the light

She’s gonna fuck you up.

Oṃ jayantī mangala kālī bhadrakālī kapālinī. Durgā ksamā śivā dhātrī svāhā svadhā namō’stu‍tē

You can’t get away. She’s taking it all away. Faithful unto her, I stand alone. You will get nothing you want, no power to be had- strip you of your carnal filth and maggot filled mind- you wear the locks of hell, be thankful she noticed. She’s not the mother you hoped she would be, sexy and yet ugly, angry and yet wise. Cry, she’s not listening. She hears something else. Bled but not fed, eat shit and die. Kali is Kali and there’s nobody else. You want pretty and clean. You want comfort and nipples. You’re getting rocks down your throat, you’re getting drug to the bottom. Headless and paralyzed, starved and rejected. She’s not the one you imagined. She’s a celibate whore, she’s a virgin in white. She’s the hole in your ass, she knows everything. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. Shes going to spit you out in the sink. She’s going to split you open on your dime. She’s going to turn you inside out like you’re reversible. Take a look inside at the cunt who wears no underwear.
That’s right, it’s all about me and my curvy headless body. I’m not immune to nightime. A sinking moon doesn’t sing bedtime songs and a sharpened boomerang can’t stop itself from coming back to its impotent thrower. She’s not letting you off her hook, she’s not changing your dimensions. Sit and listen to what you’ve done, smell the foul mess you’ve made. Her face isn’t black, her tongue isn’t lusting, her letters are the message in between the lines you don’t see or hear. And I really don’t know, I’m just doing my thing….Kali is a widow because the man is always dead. Kali is a junkie because the knot is always aching. Kali is a wall because there is never a door without her.

You’re praying to her and you hope she hears. You want out. You want in. Make up your mind. A body with no head. A mind without a heart. Sucking dying fish, blank faced and squirmy. Stuck in her sticky blubber. Don’t call me Kali. Don’t call me goddess.
Stop whining and do it yourself.

From the floor of your pit, there hasn’t been sunlight in years, looking up but no one is coming. It’s all about leases and numbers and giants that make more. It’s about losers with halos frisking the visitors at the morgue. Useless flat footed child of Satan, good luck making ends meet when you get to my world.

Corruption and a long long time ago we met. Seduction and a long long rope with your name. You hung yourself because I let you. It’s me. It’s all me…two wrongs do make a right and that’s Kali…and so I never lift a finger. I never do a thing. I just spin the wheels of your fear with my miraculous mind, a mind mounted and golden. Her maya of your thoughts -thoughts you thought were yours-are her weapons against you. Mind is eternal and so sooner or later you’ll need to stop blaming me. I am not confined by your rules and ideas of me. I am not confined by pretense and the need for survival.
I’ll do it my way.

We came out of her mouth and her throat swallows the void. it’s hopeless without her stomach to stop it. Face the projection and scream into the light. Always pregnant, don’t go there alone. I am waiting, always waiting for a tap on my silver web, deadly as always, as bright and devouring as a less heavenly Venus. There is only one of Her.

Don’t lose sight of the wandering star. The blackness of darkness forever….

I am the light.

Sharada Devi

the ghost said me

The room was dark and there was a ghost in the corner. I couldn’t sleep -and I could hear him praying- he was saying the name of Mary. The cloaks are in the sky at night -and one by one they cover us- whoever they are- they sneak in the room and lay over our bodies and smother the light- and we sleep and forget we knew him. He came in and sat down and didn’t come near me, but instead he watched, and he prayed, and he let me lie listless- a cloaked figure- a ghost- alabaster and raw. “Tomorrow isn’t coming, Christ Jesus.” I pretended I didn’t see his willowy knuckles caressing the joints in my heart. I pretended I didn’t feel Mary stirring way beneath my shallow bones. “Where have you taken me?” Another night in rags, tearing the sheets from my burdensome skin. Wild and alone, a darkness like no other settled upon me like the weight of man. I knew someone had come -dragging a corpse not far behind him, a chain down the hallway swinging a child- stuck between legs of dewdrop and ash. I mean, this is nothing new, I’ve seen it all before. I’ve been the one turning the knob on your door. And I’m coming in to lay with you -quietly worn- and I’m listening to the beat beat beat of the ghost inside your cloak. Are you going to go down on me somewhere calling out to Mary? Sacred, even more sacred than before. Prayers light the corner of my room where the shadow of you sits pretending it isn’t time to die yet. And I’m coming in your room after everyone has gone to bed -and I’m not going to cover you with sleep- but instead with me, the warm sound of her name. Ripped and torn open, wet beneath blankets and tears that don’t dry…I heard a voice come from your mouth long ago, before this happened -and tonight was only the end of your breath. I am the beginning of tonight. My chest rises and falls and nobody’s there but you. And I’m going to float through your door in the darkness -and I will not turn on the light- and I won’t sit in the corner, I will lie next to you, pulling you through me thread by thread. Close, even closer than before. Black eyed, magnetic enigma, who doesn’t hear the midnight lark- who doesn’t open music with their mouth- who doesn’t belong in my silence long after death has parted? And I stole the crown of thorns he wore and I put it on my head -and I walked away from him like I never heard a word he said…and then I came for you, “Christ, my lord why haven’t they fed my baby?” But tonight was different -and I wasn’t wearing anything, only naked- with the usual scars -and he was sitting in the corner, a ghost, and I could hear him praying to her, “Mary why did you leave me to die?” I shook word from word and saw the slow movement of transparency upon a body of burden. I looked the other way in the dark, and he whispered, “She doesn’t know I love you more” And when I come into your room after everyone’s gone to bed, and it won’t be long, I’ll bring you a piece of me that you’ll never forget, I’ll lay down and give up the sky. I’ll roll over and blind the last witness. I’ll cover you in thorns and kisses. I’ll dream a little dream for you and you’ll never see me coming. I’ll pull back the blankets and crawl inside your skin and I’ll start moving and humming her voice through the stars. I’ll open the casket and touch your body. I’ll say a prayer and beg you to never leave me again. Why do you always sit in the corner? My room is a chamber of secret syllables. Tonight is a fatal slash on my wrist. You are the sin in my tears. I am the blanket that covers your dim body. I am darker than you, we make light together. If I knew what to do I would do it. If only I could sleep without knowing who you are.

Make me whole,

The ghost said me.
Sharada Devi


my love is dying and breathing the sex in my skin…

Sexuality can be a shield, a weapon or a white flag waving peace. It’s a bottomless pit of victim hood, projection, objectification, masochism or escapism otherwise. Death is the reason -and attraction is lethal. Your only problem is that you’re afraid to die and so your sexuality is bound in survival, accomplishment and fate- these are the 3 things that suck the love from life. Death brings the end of grief, the solution to separation, the final lonely kiss on the mirror.
Surrender is the only strength we can muster. Surrender is simply riding on death’s back, free from troubles like fear and doubt..already annihilated by the blessing of clear sight. I am free to go inside the forbidden room- through terror’s door of who I really am- and I saw that I was no one and we weren’t afraid. We were gone gone gone on the back of the black one… swooping and sweeping and bodiless. Crying inside the emptiness of never needing anything, of course I still want you to love me. God was a witness and that was all. Sex was a noose and a supplier of goods. Union was the story they told us to lighten the load. And the two hollow vessels filled each other up with holograms and the bliss of existence…and so for a little while we assumed we weren’t afraid to die and to be killed-we would rather kill and be all alone…and for that while death sat waiting in the corner as a reminder of the trade. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s you who comes to me. Prayers will be answered in the order received”

“I love you, burning toast” (I always eat the black for good luck)…sexuality is a bite of death’s force that shrieks like a banshee through our bodies making war with the imagination. “Feed me, it’s square and black- is all I know” death makes babies and gives them to us to slowly kill. This is where we are. Stop lying and pretending life is something else. Death is your mother. The Mother Light is the flashlight she holds for you as you make your way back into her tunnel after you get done hallucinating this place…I’m making you promises as we speak. Sexuality is morbid and winding. Sexuality is angry and red. There is a river running through hell and upon that river rides a white swan always singing her last goodbye as the sound of her orgasm through bricks of black fire. She doesn’t need you. You thought your body was it, that the steam was the fire- that the heat was the form fitting woman. You thought that the man had the answer, he carried some carnal power- hard and immortal. This is all wrong. Death is a dragon with a long, hard, red tongue and a hot, pink, moist mouth dripping with promises. “I promise you I love you. I promise you I’ll never leave. I promise you you’re the only one. I promise you forever and ever. I promise you my rickety body. I promise you anything you want….” death is seducing it’s corpse over and over and you’re dreaming the pleasure and pain. It’s a sado masochistic wedding that has its skeletons wearing black and white and then consummating the promises- the dragon’s vows of life forever after love. But there is no life or love until you die- (this time, not last time) sexuality is the attraction to annihilation as an act of mercy upon the blank bodies called us.

This is my story.

I’m in Florida. I love screened in porches where you can pretend you’re outside the box, even when you’re not. Speaking of leaving the box…
the only thing that ever brought me closer to god were my many near death experiences- and even then, it’s only always after the fact that you realize who you’ve slept with and how he helped you to see just how hot you really are. I’ve met many saints and holy people and they didn’t really bring me closer to God- they just opened my eyes to who God really is…because some people just hate God or become more fearful when death lifts his eyes to meet theirs…
my promise to you is a surrender deeper than the love we’ve imagined to avoid ownership of the lawless and unperturbed anarchist dragon…

God is none other than my awareness of him breathing into me to remind me whose in charge of this ride- whips and chains and crosses, scabbed knees and scars that don’t end…black leather and studded belts- pits of self destruction- sabotaging, singing girls playing with your forlorn anatomy- boys left without a drop.

God lives in every broken heart like a germ in ambush waiting to devour the illusion.

My love is dying and breathing the sex in my skin…

forever at last.
Sharada Devi


I keep getting caught up in being misses nice guy- because of the projection and responsibility I’ve assumed- but it’s all just another fantasy- and me and my delusional ideals and “human projects” I’m like a fucking spiritual landscaper or something -so demented-I know it’s just a dream- and it’s not any more real than your declarations of love or devotion- we’re both to blame- I feel like cinderella on steroids and it’s not cool- for any of us- midnight is all there is and so it’s one big headed loser pumpkin after another…and old maid clothes and only one fucking glass slipper- I’m lopsided and my sisters are ugly lazy bitches- the prince isn’t too bright- but at least he’s rich- I’m just saying, that’s how the story goes…you made me all up and I let you do it…coming back and quoting me on my blog like I’ve forgotten something I’ve said or that I lied. You’re the victim/character and I’m the megalomaniac- mentally incapacitated pick pocket gypsy whose barely holding onto her flabby outdated looks and yet still scouting  for followers to build the dream empire of her impoverished sex pervert cult- ok- so PLAY ALONG. I should be careful not to become what I despise. Sucking hairy crumbs off the floor like my fat snorting female dog counterpart…just a loathsome dispositor of wishful thinking and alarming self sabotage. I can’t handle fakes and takers or germs that lead to illness and yet I’m eating off the floor…???…I always knew there was a catch to the implications of my duty. Dutiful and destitute, desperate and deeply damned- this secret intelligence stabs like a rusty knife and I’m still holding the cheese-barely hungry -and not really that interested anymore, maybe you don’t know what I mean…Is that you knocking Shiva Shiva Mahadeva?

A grumble in an empty stomach.

I stole something from you. No you can’t take it. I knew the first time I saw you that you were mine- or was it just that sweaty, sexy money getting hard in your pocket- I’m not a liar or a thief- those days were so long ago-it’s like trying to remember my hairstyle in preschool. Just make this easy on yourself and lay your tired head down on the cutting board -chopping block- whatever- and put your busy little hands behind your back. Get on your knees and stop looking around. Bow down before the one you serve, you’re going to get what you deserve. Stay out of my bedroom. Lick the blood off your plate. Fold your clothes. Don’t use my fork- pitchforks leave a mark -and this box is a locked door with no way out- like the traps they make for rats with a little piece of enticing cheese…tongues that won’t be bitten need to be cut off. Be careful what you wish for because the stairs go a long way down and we aren’t stopping to take a potty break mid-world -and you can think what you want about me and talk shit until your sun sinks- you know nothing about her. Her, whose hands guide feathers through silence, whose eyes churn butter from lesser pain. The sound of her tender feet, the pressure of her rose petal skin against the porcelain. The angel I drown in the bathroom sink. I killed her by holding her under my hellwater faucet. My hands are dirty with astral bugs from down under and so she locks her door and won’t let me in. And angel is another word for whoever touches me. And whore is another word for whoever turns me on- and hot is what I can’t touch- untouchable worm, crowded in doorways, T’s that you forgot to cross. It makes no difference if you make your sick bed now, it only took one time to murder the one you thought that you loved, so many names, so many cheap words kept on ice- lonely mind fucker….cracks in the floor, chapped leathery skin burning on sight, the sound of her indifferent void, no more soft fairy feet or rebel seeking laughter…no more poetry in the daily scriptures of my captivity.

Hare Krishna, its a box
Krishna, Krishna box box box.

It’s always the same, never nothing, never enough, never her, never you. It’s always a trap, never closed but forbidden, never taken but withheld, never what I really want…who am I looking for? My eyes are chipped like an old mirror and the images are broken like a bad steamy dream. I have bad dreams about watching you leave and then losing your number. I don’t lie -but I do make things up. Is there a difference? I don’t know…I control the stifled world, at least those in my pretty drinking places- because I’m bored and thirsty and I let you think I’m made of sweet water and fragile flowers under moonlight. You can’t break what’s already been broken dear Rama. The moon is a cave with demons living inside. It’s not a romance or a soft lit haven of grace. Like Frankenstein or Lord Brahma-a black crayon over my face makes no difference either little horned tripper…neither do the promises from the wine stained tongue of a drunken creator… I’m a mess with too many loose ends. I say Shiva because at least he’ll end the endless humping- but then again, probably not since he doesn’t seem to care or notice….wishful thinking and opportunity withheld as my last hopeful breath -I would die for him like any beautiful dreamer. Destroy this flimsy low grade world, dirty minds and ugly unions…Get it straight, straight up and still. Flat on your back. Face to the floor. Eat my feet. annihilate and stop. Stop me. That would be fun. I only say it because I know that you can’t and don’t dare try to get into that box- because locks symbolize enlightenment and at this point, you don’t want to know….believe me, it’s rare and only the mummy can tell you that time is passing time -itself wrapped in gauze- like a car passes fumes into its wake. The law is the law so do it my way and I’ll rub you raw all day. And at night I’ll tenderize the meat -and just before the last star leaves the sky, I’ll burn you to death in my fire. You can think I don’t know how, that I’m just a terrible tease and exaggerator…and maybe it’s true but I am also a dangerously hypnotic black hole nevertheless-I’ll pull you under it’s true, I don’t lose what I take- I was never meant to please or entice -only consume and swallow and end.


Stop the madness. All of me, pieces of pure white noise. Shafts of imaginative men going nowhere but deeper into my wet wrath and never getting me from any angle ever. I WIN. It’s too bad for you that you think I’m insane because crazy people know a lot you can’t teach them. Hahaha! Gag the hot guy. Tie up the stag. It’s so easy…like those little toy stoves they make for young girls to learn how to cook- easy oven and it doesn’t even have to get that hot…it’s SO EASY. To cook, I mean-You.
Rip him limb from limb that annoying spider 🕷. My cats used to eat their legs one by one like it was a game. If I had wings, I’d want you to tear them off- I don’t need them. I don’t need anything but you. Hahaha. There I go again, I believe it’s called a control freak-plus you believe everything I say so how do you know it’s not true? Either way, I’m controlling this collision because you love me -and it hurts- and hurt is a feeling- and mostly you’re as numb as the nose of a skunk- so we’re off to a start that’s got no end- but surrender.

How long will this take. You’re as white as a ghost and you croak like a frog and you’re tied up in knots OVER me because you’re not UNDER me and I keep saying, “Shiva Shiva Mahadeva” because it’s the key to the locked door, stupid. It’s the only way in or out of the box….

and don’t get fluffed up like a pissed off bird. Crawl to me and beg for more. It’s master and servant. Yes it is. And it’s not my fault, but I did it on purpose. Am I perverse? Possibly, but I’m an angel -and angels can do anything they want without ever getting burned…BECAUSE I COME FROM HEAVEN AND FIRE IS GOD AND NO ONE IS HOTTER THAN I AM.

God 💲
Sharada Devi

beneath the lover’s secret 🌙

Sunshine comes from God. Moonshine pours from God’s lover…

lay my body beneath the sun and let me die. Death, my shining Beloved, will never let me go. Chop me to pieces and feed me to the circling shadow birds who perch upon the jagged mountain waiting to devour the useless, leaving nameless bones of me -clean and alone, a pile of yesterday on the top of the world. Surrendered to the jewel beyond a transient life where I am broken yet fitted, diffused yet exact, rimless yet buoyant. The union of chaos and symmetry. The oldest story in the book is the one written behind this disguise of clouds…and this precious book has never been opened or closed. Feed me back as letters to myself, write your name on me. Let me become the black flag’s wrath….

the black flag is waving in the crier’s heart…. I’m hiding myself from you there…kill me quietly before the dawn…and yet I will only pretend to leave you…

there is nothing left of me but what he held….the moon was beneath his feet yet somehow I hung stringless above the pyre of his bliss as the white crescent horns of dissolution, the backwards glance of the serpentine sway…

yellow sunlight tears of this god flow from the heart of my weeping child, blue moody eyes of gray held me until the dawn. Softly time lies cradled, wrapped inside my round and smooth skinned body. I once knew we had forever inside this pure world of whispers… “Are you still alive?” I heard you say. Lost inside a dreaming haunt, a lion tilting toward the moon. ” If looks could kill, I’d already be gone.” Translucent and dripping…roaring radiant light through the tunnel of my soul, pouring me into sunshine. I loved the black until I became the white. I drank the red until I became the gold. I ate the devil until I became his god. My love ends all endings. My love kills all death. I am a mystery that can’t be matched or seen or heard except by the lovers who become one another…the deep rapture, passionate and costly. I feed your roots, then I pull you out of me dripping seeds of earth and then I lift you exactly into exaltation. Silver stars and words we cannot begin to say…I understood you and your dissonant fury. I held your invisible hand and like a firey opal I enlivened your heavy, shaken corpse until you lit up like a stormy sky and exploded like thunder into me, hiding behind the fire on the dark side of the lover’s secret moon. I am the black hole rooted in the sun, pulling you through thread by thread back into my wordless, seamless domain of electrical storms and genius flashes. An orgasmic rushing hidden flame is raging behind her cool and regal throne. I hold a needle of crystal ice. The attraction of the lion to his dominion is the power of the wise. He is a throbbing black stone and she is a wet and empty star. He is the blazing sun enlightening his captive and she is the full moon overflowing with the secrets inherent in the night.

Sunshine comes from God. Moonshine pours from God’s lover….

But promises get cracked and broken just like hearts do when we forget that this world isn’t in that place we once knew…hard times pounding asphalt, smoking rubber, forging steel, making wars, words made of metal sounds, blinded, opaque eyes. behind the big wheel, so little but trying harder anyway…..why did you leave me? Steering, climbing, chewing. Grit and the ugly things we’ve seen and said…my world was huge and magical…counting the numbers, shaving off dirty ice, encasing the soulless in ironed clothes and a shifty searching gaze. Opportunity around every corner, making the grade, owning more land and like needing more things and crossing the seas and flying higher than the clouds….I make everything ok….inside the make believe tube you swallow poison and fumes and you’re hurting with a grimace and you’re expiring and you’ll turn sour soon. I’m always sweet and will never leave you….you became a liar when you left the tree and it stings and it clenches and it burns and it bites and it’s a shallow grave where you’ve buried her. And you’re standing on the edge of this precipice like a toilet before it’s flushed….do the right thing…I’ve seen your face behind the mask and I know where your smile is hiding, behind the sadistic and lamenting is the solar arc of glowing royalty. Lift up your eyes from the pavement and don’t pay for the plastic anymore. Look at me and remember how we laughed before we lied. How we did it all before we even tried…in the endless happy fields of light with marigolds and hummingbirds there was meaning in a stream that murmured, there was a message in the wind….He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. Our names are still carved in the tree…

because trees and promises really do live forever…

beneath the lover’s secret 🌙
Sharada Devi

Ashes, mommy.

Goddess protect me from nothing
One love always adds more to itself
The servant is the master of masters
Guru is in the crystal moon crying
Buddha’s tear fell to earth and I became her
Lord hear my prayer even when I stop praying
The mother is the all and everything of this mess
Hail the mother light and hold the mother dark closest…

because midnight is coming to count heads soon…

in flesh I made these bones my home. In time I made this space eternal. A broken clock hangs from this wall, like I, who scream “Where have you gone?!” I hang from this cross limp and yet seductive. Time and space where my mother weeps and yet cannot hold my hand, all we ever came for was the sight and taste of her dripping breast, to touch her skin, to hear her breathing in our ear- It makes no sense, the sense of her…the tomb of wedding vows we endure, the honeycomb of alliance between the line and the drop. You still don’t get it do you? You aren’t escaping, walking, reacting, creating…you aren’t doing anything but hanging and watching your thoughts dry hump you while the blood slowly drains from your flesh, leaving only your bones echoing….you used to be here like a leach sucking its own blood. The earth drains into the sound hole, the echo gets filled with your soul. Then you blame it on me. Some sort of security or insult- I am a rock always falling from the edge of the cliff, my existence smashing your plans for a brighter future. Why are you so stupid? Is it because mommy and daddy weren’t very smart? I guess that’s it, we can’t move beyond our creator-and that’s as scary as hell. Daddy wasn’t a genius and mommy wasn’t a brilliant flash of anything but bad dinners and whining. Somewhere stuck in time and beating our brains into bacon…I won’t be waiting in squalor, I’ll be sitting on death holding him still. I’ll be blowing my breath into her eyes. Black hole Sun. Only in.

And nobody matters but me and how I match the face I’ve made….the fires I light, the death I catch. It isn’t a mistake, not an accident waiting to happen. It is a glory beyond bridges that burn. It is a corpse beyond movement that hinges. It is a pain beyond bliss that consumes. It is a shock beyond stillness. It is a heart with no thump. You won’t beat me because I’m beaten daily. I’m a hot and aching wishbone of thrusting- mounted like a mountain range with a sun and moon strung through me constantly trading places. It’s all a big thankful bang from both sides and
still this fire never dies…but hisses the sound of two snakes listlessly and eternally being wrapped into one…peace and quiet isn’t possible, only getting spanked and buried and pierced and poked and smothered and strangled until you burst into HER SPIRALING FLAMES
then you’ll know whose who…

It is even said that the great mystic Rumi summed up his life with these final words of enlightened wisdom,
“I burnt, and burnt, and burnt.”

Hahaha! See what I mean?
give me someone to burn…
It’s never the end of the climax…
so rock me more love socket.
Ashes, mommy.
Sharada Devi

flesh for fantasy

My pale underbelly, my tender thigh, my flute bone playing the same hypnotic tone. Inside the realm of the hapless witch lodged way beneath the play of children, priceless, hairless and underfed, hide the progeny of another kind. The living remains of what we shed, what we starved and what we sold. The cycles of the moon, a strand of your hair, a drop of saliva, a black cat arched, a kettle boils incantations beneath the murmur of it all. Inside my bedroom, the digital demon dances across hot rocks. My bed is a casket where these babies without sticks are made. Time is a memory lapse that I caress into madness like a rocket about to explode into space. I’m not imagining the end of a civilized kind. I’m not mending old clothes or tending the mother’s sweet home. Women carry their babies like empty weapons, they wear their bodies of bondage like dried old clay painted and obviously cracking. I’m loaded with dangerous ideas and I carry a big bag of left overs for whoever is hungry. I am here, always watching lips torn from the nipple and legs ripped open like zippers. I am here, always listening to the cash being counted, thrown in heaps over my naked body. Cover me with riches in blankets of things being worshipped and wail my forbidden name out loud. Feed me to the bank vault and eat me while I’m still fresh and fragrant. It doesn’t matter which way you fall, I am a net without holes. You don’t see my many lolling heads? Another preserved antique for sale. Another bulgy eyed baby getting burped, warm vomit sprayed all over my chest and I’m thinking about what sort of fish to fry for dinner. Did I wash those sweaty sheets? How many men can I chew and spit out before coming this way again….how many dollars can I bake and eat and then bury beneath my lumpy bed? I was walking through a graveyard and the tombs and headstones were blank and the new ghosts hovered above the mowed grass like they still had a purpose or like someone still owed them something, I was like, “Quit stalking me, I’m only passing through and I have nothing to give or to take from you.” But they followed me anyway waiting until I dropped a crumb or a coin…their stomachs still growling, their mouths still wet with lust. So I took off my clothes and said hop in just to see what they’d do…I said, “Bend over and take it like a man” they started hissing and dispersing just like I knew they would….fleeing from the one who made their dying face more clear. I can save you. I was willing to free them from their aching dream of flesh for fantasy, I was willing to defile them one last god forsaken time…and still I get blamed for their red balloon being empty…because cowards never die they just float like dust balls making excuses forever. And I am only semi-moved to pity. I’ve never much cared for humans- up close anyway- since we’re being honest, I have, though, cared for animals- and even then, I lose interest once their breath starts getting bad. I know bodhisattva this, bodhisattva that….whose to say how the doll gets dressed? Haha. I’m willing to go all the way to wherever the worst most vile filth pit whorehouse place is, just to make a statement that your pants are either on or off right- not halfway down silly little hungry baby ghost -Well, hiding is what the new ghosts do because they’re confused without their body to blame or someone else’s body to chase or to taste. No nipples, no skirts, no bottles, no blue balls…so the target is always easy, it’s the blind one, the child without a mother. It’s the one who can’t hold their liquor, the one who goes stag, it’s the dirty tongue, the wet rag. Bitches don’t just come disguised as women you know because down those dark dirty backstreets where men dressed like sexy, worn prostitutes sell their shaved and trimmed inbetween bodies to other angry men who dress their dick like a sucking doll or use it as a bottle for a pretty man baby with a mouthful of teeth – there is an entire species being created by the all-seeing serpent who never lies, but only slithers down the death defying alleys looking for new holes- holes in you, that you can’t fill or slip through… We always said “call on God” for a reason. Red flag, black flag, stop wheezing and chewing and blow up the big and the boneless for good. The viper and the cobra have a long a flexible vertebrae and we grew legs and hands and hoods and wings anyway. Poison filled our hearts because humans are a mix of many half breeds and askew disconnected dna -and we haven’t yet found the cure to this curse-the ruts that ruin making us bewildered and flailing, honestly lost and lacking in any meaningful skill. The horror is, we think otherwise….merely cattle with ego inflation…I was only saying, maybe we should take a better look at the other side that’s all- before we come to any major decisions about sexuality or beastiality, about origin or religion- about how we don’t really have life or that we’re even too weak to really ever die. In conclusion, I never played with dolls because their skin was cold and made of rubber and their eyes didn’t move and they never listened…because I’m not a twisted sister or an allegory. I’m alive like a wasp drunk on witche brew…tossing aside the worthless spew of wormhole bodies, laughing and stinging the night as I rise…while you’re all still wondering if there’s a hell.

flesh for fantasy,
Sharada Devi