Real Me, the aftershock🎱


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real Me, the aftershock🎱
Sharada Devi


to know her is to kill her


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

I am a bird too, made of you.

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

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

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

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

I am never dying.  Sharada Devi

the wisdom and insanity of space, dark matter and time


Attraction. Diamonds, pearls, eyes that glow. I want the deepest teaching. Magnetism, revulsion, it’s all a turn off momentarily. The tide goes in and out, in and out. The darkness pulls from underneath, the ground gets looser. Tantra. Touching bodies, heat. Cold minds. The two could tangle without their own knots. Untie to tie to the bow of God. Heart Bow. The gift of bodies. You want direct combat, confrontation, explanation? Sometimes. Why not? Should we talk about chakras and integration, organized spiritual welfare or how enlightenment is a train wreck and you thought it was me. What can I tell you? The dynamics of fucking, dating, priming the pump, getting over yourself in the midst of it all. If I said God is sex, I didn’t mean you were a horny desperate monkey. I meant know thyself deeply in me. How, who cares how. First the story must generate friction and yearning. Since you think you have, know and are. Since you are proud as is the equation, we stumble and we fumble and we call the words useless. The words that define the momentum. Waves of bliss, desire, self abandon. Stop. Think of someone besides yourself, I mean really. In my experience it’s all about being recognized. Unfortunately God or Christ do not recognize themselves they only see God in you, outside. Yes, I don’t know. It’s an example. Objectifying the interior of the moment, the space is a crime. Creating a wormhole so you can crawl out after you’ve eaten all you can take. Tantra. It’s your problem if you put words in my mouth. It’s your loss if you’re so empty you fuel up on the other. You want magical powers? Pathetic, glory seeker. Selfish, self obsessed, hedonistic fool. You should want only her light and her splendor to bath you in invisibility. Yet you stand on an ant hill claiming the light. I haven’t claimed any light, mother light doesn’t mean me, it’s a place. It’s a land. I lay my head on her pillow, nobody ever comes. I can’t have anything I am not. Tantra, two bodies, must be aligned. “Tell me about alignment,” such arrogance. Why don’t you tell me. Why don’t you listen. Why won’t you disappear? Devotion means disappearance without a trace. No power, no recognition, no name, no reason, no acknowledgement, no nothing but the paralysis of perfect static. Love is frozen in it’s own dance. Love is very real yet undetermined. When the two stop moving, when the earth stops spinning, when everything ceases to exist, love reigns supreme. “I want to fall in love.” How? It’s such a fractional attempt at perfection. What is misunderstood as far as I see is the components. It is not the body that is beautiful that feels the other body that is beautiful, that the eyes have determined as such. No. It’s the stars pulling light and darkness from each other, it’s the matching of missing pieces, it’s out of our control. It’s the soul determining the spark and why and how and to what end? The long list of reasons and qualifications and attempts at surrender to her who is the one spinning is useless. Have it your way. Keep your head another day, tell others how they feel. Keep yourself locked tight in delusion and habit. Keep the waves away, talk about dying and Christmas trees, obliterating oceans and starlight that searches. I do understand and I do see. Myself, always me gripping the unclimbable mountain called God, my true love in the hot seat. You could say I fuck with people, or maybe we all do. I see it more as unravel, untangle for a greater good. Me and you, without condition. What’s this thrill of the pulsating wave, what’s this need to be seen, what’s this need of you that can’t stop looking at the seed that’s so deep you can’t find it anyway until it sprouts? The need to be outside the moment, afraid, watching, counting, looking, imagining. Wasting what’s real -which is direct experience.

I give I do I only offer direct experience. I talk. I hate talking. You should learn to talk so that you are understood. You should work for the other so they hear your words and feel understood by you. You should stop being selfish and spoiled. You should do only what seems appropriate for you. You shouldn’t listen to me unless you are struck to hear. I am not the one who knows, maybe I see, maybe not. I can’t guarantee anything except that I’ll go there, I’ll go anywhere I feel in the moment without any second thought. I guess that’s dangerous, it feels fine to me. I guess letting go and drowning is tantra. Only when you know she is the water that you’re drowning in of course, otherwise you’re just dead for no good reason. Everyone wants everyone else to suit them, their whims, weaknesses and hang ups, myself included. It’s uncomfortable, this edge of confusion. This mind blowing realm of invigorating threat. Fear, mice, holes chewed in bags. Body bags, food. Don’t feed on anyone’s eyes or body. Give to God, who you look for, give everything you have and are. Stop taking, knock before entering. Respond. Hold yourself accountable. Go beyond the calling, walk straight up to the top and lay yourself down like a rag. Clean others with your body but first, give yourself away to the fear of her terrible light. Which is what this ever is. There is no darkness, only the light we have not been powerful enough to see. We grow, we begin to see, glimpses of light spreading through unseen territory. We have always only feared this light. Don’t be confused, stop putting words in my mouth, stop lying that one day your day will come. It won’t. This is it. I hope you’re happy stuck in the spokes, I hope you someday see you had nothing to prove to me. I hope you see her pacing in your hallways. I hope you know I am only a willing participant. I hope you know my love, my detachment, my wrath and my waiting are all for you who is God. I hope you know I am not special, I am broken. I got up and like a puppet am animated by the wisdom and insanity of space, dark matter and time. There is a clock inside us all, an alarm that goes off. The time could be now. Wake up dead groping body. Five days of lucidity won’t pull you through another 360 days of opacity. Love. I got off track. Yes, I love you terribly. Yes you’re not there, unavailable and pretending. It’s up to you, not me. You could show me who you are, open the deep cellar, swim in your body towards me. Whoever is ready, I am waiting. Let me say once again, I am nobody and likely a big egomaniac, why take chances? But I will give you whatever light I have because God is spreading a watery heaven over us like the moon spreads the ceaseless waves, and the earth is being split open by a lightening no man has ever seen. And there is a heart thunder rumbling like it’s the last second of time and tomorrow never comes. It never has and it never will. Today, right now, is the last and first chance we will ever have to make a death defying leap into the oblivion of the deepest most terrible light known as some sort of love that we have yet to discover, determine, be inside. It’s a place. Love. It’s not simply a feeling. No, it’s a floating and submerging abode. In and out. The blanking out of anything we ever thought was real. Love is an eclipse. A wiping away of the human wave, a red bloody ripped open hole in your ocean chest. Waves of red goddess. Where did my heart go? I fed it to God. That’s what this is, not a romp in the hay. A kiss by a river. No, it’s fatal attraction my seasonal friend. There are no seasons in love. It’s all over. So that’s tantra alone or with two. Tantra, negating, ignoring you all over the place. You should look for God and do whatever you can to get closer. I hope it hurts, the cracking of death light’s hammer, the pounding, the sting of left over life.

That’s my take on this topic. You may think I’ve said nothing at all. And you’re right. It’s a schism of avoidance and an abode of heart beating heart. I’m not afraid of you, I’m covered in pain. I don’t lie, well maybe that’s a lie. I do my best. That’s the deflating factor. My best is never enough until I stop. Love stops everything like a nuclear bomb. It’s not about your feelings, it’s about your fear. Love Death God. Who cares? Stupid words. Direct experience. Leave your hovel, rich or poor and experience directly your fear of not being sheltered. You’re a liar unless you test your own words. Talk is cheap, like fucking bodies that hide behind flesh. I’m only saying walk the line. The hot wire of holy thread.
Everyone fits through the same stupid needle. Be different. Count backwards. Do something unusual, like think for yourself. Stop asking advice, opinions. Looking in the bathroom mirror posing. Get out of your head. And so I go another day reaching into nothing step by step, breathing ice blood, air laced with agony. Every sunrise I fill my heart with sadness like a sacred aching balloon and I carry the last day of forever into the fire of night as if I’ll never get a second chance to be you, my beloved snag. God. Sharada Devi




There is a mourning field of widow trees where I live. I was walking my dog and I heard them crying. They are gnarled and ancient. They talk mostly to each other and the birds only sometimes. On this day, I was walking I heard crying and I stopped. Widow trees they told me, are always crooked and are the wedge for many webs, even beyond the spiders or my mind. The web, in the tree where he left her, growing down where we can’t see into forever, these thirsty roots that cannot stop looking for the source of the sky. Nothing and nobody pushes like a tree against all odds but these widows, they were different. A huge coven of them grown in a spiraling circle, a labyrinth back to space and dust. I looked and there was nothing in the middle to where this circular weaving led, nothing but dead sticks and poison oak, the wind was blowing through their graying leaves. So I took my dog back inside and I returned to the widow trees and here I now sit listening to them. I want to know more, more ancient things, all about where their beloved went and why they must stay, growing here. Old and forgotten. Unheard, bark stripped bare, exposed to sharp sun and shading rocks that have no voice, can’t hear music and get in the way sometimes of the rain water streaming below inside the ground, other webs, beneath the dirt. Rocks are inside here too. Rocks that actually aren’t magical but malefic and only growing smooth because they have no choice and so here we are and what do they say, let me listen and I’ll write it all down…

Dream catcher, a mask of leaves. Wind ringing the sky bell. The earth is tearing out her abandoned soul. I have only the touch of her stone left as time. The brave men have left. There is no food. Birds hide crumbs in our branches but their song is hoarse. There is a silver and electric current that runs under this ground. We were the ones who started this, the cycle. The sounds of the forest that open vision. But why? Nowhere to call home. We made some mistakes.
Ash from our very own body now covers our face, our bodies are obscene and ignored. The sun has been biting us deeply long after his hunger subsides. The spirits are weak, most have left wandering the roads that lead higher. Our branches are brittle, our roots are angry at the sky. We mourn and yet death comes so slowly. Will you strike a match and free us, will you free us from our weary earthly root swamps?

Witches, you’re all witches conspiring in the ache of night. Solid like thunder and loud like my petrified shine. These spindly arms, where do you go? 1,000 arms and a crown made of azure blue. Blue midnight, midnight under the female trees. I know there is an invisible kingdom here and that’s the tragedy most unfelt but permeating this forest of life as left over starving ghosts making uncomfortable noises under our beds. Growling like beasts without bodies to feed. The clash of the seen and the unseen. The invisible woman, the unmet man. The naked of forgetting, the covering of trunks. Eyes inside the trees that watch us, I am seeing many years of woodless fire before me. Sad lonely spiral, deep searching roots, reaching tired arms into the sky, welcoming birds as God, branches as thrones of the throat, tongue and eyes. It’s all the same face wherever I go. This field silent yet desperately screaming for hope, knowing it’s never enough until we’re dead. Diseases filled with wasps. Webs holding poison or those who wish they were poisonous. Caught particles of bad night’s, dream images from minds of the mad world. It’s a madness that leaks out, into earth and sky and even above and below these places, there is loss. Loss of semen, loss of sap, loss of blood, loss of caring if we stay or if we go…

You get it. Trees saying sad goodbyes that will need to wait a million more years to go. And I’m sad and big and broken all over the ground as I walk away sighing, moments of dying. For the trees lonely God spiral into the center of nothing but poison that itches and burns. Dangling tree snakes with no heart laughing through their pronged symbol of elixir…Eden, we didn’t know, we never know how the alchemy of suffering fuses death and life. It’s unsettling and prolific, my vision of swollen pregnant trees…old and barren left to crumble. We have made fools of our earth gods. In us, we left nothing but trash that lives forever. Plastic love words…filth.

There is the human trail of candy wrappers in the sky and chicken bones upon my doorstep that leads me to the agitation of a traveling death. You, I remember. Graves, stumps, rings of time. Stalker, can’t you leave us alone for a minute? Go inside. It’s hot and you’re uprooting things that should stay rooted, like fear and knowing. It’s universal. The coven of widow trees. Mother you are alone, holding us all and waiting for God to take you. I know and I see and I remember the stream underground where you left me and I was born both young and old. And it all counted as the garden of solace. Pure you.

Beloved dirt, I am happy inside you. Thank you until the final moment…until I blow you to dust.

Sharada Devi


Dark lord. There is you. Fuck it all.


Someone threw a rock at me last night and it hurt. I guess I was asleep and didn’t see it coming. I think it was meant for someone else, but I was in the way. You know how that is, to be in the way, like a wall with no door. Well fuck you anyway, and I’m not finishing the stupid story. The white wolf or horse or however it went, FUCK IT. Fantasies, fairyland giggling children, star people haha, such distraction from what I really want to say. The dead fairy floating face down in the swamp, now that part made sense. The rest SUCKED. I ❤️ vampires because they ❤️ me, that’s why I wrote it, I’m a slayer and I draw, literally suck, from fear and violence. That’s right I draw sparks from baby caterpillars, then I step on them to watch the pitiful stream of sputtering smoke rise. Why take it personally? I don’t.

BTW, wings can be black. Black and invisible. Wings fly in both directions, basically “angels” can’t be trusted any further than you can throw them, it’s a cosmic mistake this “wings” always being some “good” thing. I’ve had wings for years and where has it gotten me? Lower than the deepest hell snake, that’s where. People talk about hearts as if only “love” goes there. Like I’ve said time and time again, love and words like good and fun are not words at all. They are language slurs, barriers, excuses to say something stupid and much more meaningless than the silence that they have the audacity to rise from. White desert silence, white spooky half ass wolves, proud peacocks that need to be “seen” or the Jesus scenario “have faith in me, drink my blood.” So ridiculous and wasteful how we throw language around as if we understand what drives the stupidity. Arrogance and narcissism I think it’s true. And yes, I’m all of the above. It doesn’t bother me that it’s true as a matter of fact I’m happy to face the bleak alliance of mirrors, cameras that constantly flash. So it’s “funny” how when one likes what they hear they’re finally “seen” and when they don’t like what they hear they’re “misunderstood” that’s hysterical. I’m sure I do it all the time. But it’s hard being easy, you see what I mean? And I feel my main purpose in life as far as self observation and experience goes is that I’m a bit sadistic – from an earthly standard and I seem to seduce then trap then torture then annihilate. It’s beyond any vested self interest as I really don’t care how it goes, I’m so far gone, so utterly broken, totally possessed by whatever haunts the room at the moment and so it’s not any consequence to me that I might be compulsively psychotic, edgy bordering “evil,” I care, I really do….cold as a vampire snake and as hot as a fire between lovers. I could, can and am all these things and then I simply fly away. Don’t ask me why, ask yourself. I personally can’t go there. I don’t even live here, I only visit daily. The pitiful human realm of the “other” the needs, the drama, the isolation. PAINFUL shit. Yes, sucks hard and even then it wasn’t enough. Fucking. Don’t even get me started on that BORING animal process. Yes. “Processing,” what a fucking head trip, mind scam. Why are earthlings such universal losers? I just don’t get the weakness and squirming. I just don’t get the inner dialogue of lies and self obsession. Am I important yet? As important as the Buddha perhaps? Lethal. All of it. And so you see why the story of the “White Horse” must end before it’s over. Like death, shit happens and we don’t know when. I live there already in the underworld. I’ve fucked the Dark Sun too many times to count. I rehashed old news just for you and I’m not even saying you care. I doubt you do.

Nobody cares about anything or anybody. They only want recognition as far as I can tell. “Let me be this and you see it ok?” That’s the agreement, funny. And also, it seems people thought I was the girl witch in the story. But I was not, I am not.
You didn’t catch it did you? The story was over long before anything happened that seemed important such as “Love” animals, wolves, ravens, big stud stallions, erect snakes- so many seductive connotations but no. I was the dead fairy right from the start, face down in the swamp. Torn wings, staring fish eyes into the cold murky waters. That’s what he did to me. That’s my vision of love. Love is a ruthless snake that takes away fantasy words such as love. I’m so fucking bored with the dance. Dancing cold bodies, nobody can find me anywhere. Maybe you too. But you’re probably ok, and it’s only because you think you are. Fine I mean and it’s all “good” wicked pursuit of glory, spiritual emptiness. I can’t teach myself anything. Hurt rides the white horse, anger rides the black. Righteous sexy anger. Deep understanding hurt. The truth is, I think I love. What do I feel? I think it’s love. What do I know? Nothing. What do I feel? Then who knows? Where am I, where can I go to find you? You’re buried beneath me I think and I think too much covers the thinking. Thoughts about how love feels. It’s complete insanity. Deeply sad to be lost in it. I don’t feel lost like I can’t find a thing that I know, I mean lost like where have you gone? Why did you leave? Is this the swamp where death bares fruit? I’m sorry to be dismal, fatalistic I suppose.
And I won’t even get dramatic or blame men or another woman or anyone but me. Me. Me the one inside the prism casting shapes with names I don’t even like. Me the holographic waste of time, not in a “bad” way. But it’s true. The lie is true. I am defensive, like a flower in a hail storm. I should not be out in public, I should be inside the hidden cave. I should stay there and call you from afar. You would never hear me. Never heard, never seen. Never touched. Never loved. A moment flashes promise and leaves forever. It’s cruel how death can even fall in waves from the sky, but it’s all my fault for believing in transient, mortal conditions. We know they pass, like an infection. We know the smile is ours. We know the knife hurts like a golden razor. We know convenience when we see it. I forget what I know and pretend it’s all cool. Hot. So hot inside this puzzle made of flesh. Pieces never fit, not mine anyway. I squeeze them together. I cut edges off and push the parts as if I could. It’s sad. I know it’s really sad. They have called me the long walking sadness. The unending shadow casting cool tears. The greatest pain of all, lives in me. The emptiness to have it without caring if it’s real. The urge to pretend just for one warm summer day. Nothing lasts. Of course you’re the greatest, softest swan ever born on my water. It’s a swamp though and so sorry, you’ll be dead soon floating with the unsung fairy. And I’ll “love” you inside the dark death water by killing what’s already dead. Makes no sense at all. Diamonds don’t die, skeletons don’t die, rocks don’t die, love dies. I’m sorry it’s dead because it’s a condition of waves that have no shore. A bird that rocks and aches for me to be inside it. I mean, I get that you could say “love” is “God” and it’s cute like a get well card for someone who isn’t sick enough to die. I would say we can only use love like we use death. The permanence, the tragedy, the complexity. The perfection of being caught and giving up. The surrender of strategy and possibility. The ending where we meet the dusk. Could the sun ever rise again. Dark Lord. Your intoxicating face. My water inside that glows with poison. I don’t care who I am, what you see, who you believe in as long as your life is the seed in me. I’m dead under water. Dark lord. I do not notice the day or the hour. The sun or the moon, only the space that remains between us. There is you. Dark maker, taker. I give you the only thing I have which is me, I don’t even know me. There is no me to give but for you I never stop trying. We are alone. You are the only one left. The sun never rose. The moon fell into her grave. The little song broke in pieces all over the cold earth and still I never let go of you however you came. You were death, love and light. You were evil and bright. You were as perfect as I could ever be. Inside underneath underworld under bodies, pure love lives and I know because I’ve been under this world forever. Kissing my very own face and laughing and crying in as many mirrors ever made. I wait. Still I wait for your eyes to rise as my own.

Tainted human love. I take it all in shallow waves and the deep violent undertow, because this moon ghost of me speaks beyond the earth world and without a voice I hear the gap that bodies and sounds can never say.

Dark Lord. There is you. Fuck it all. Sharada Devi

approaching death with a yearning heart


Transformation. Astral fire, demon fever, burning pitch. The night makes black sounds, the day holds memories. You can’t forget what she told you although you may try. The wounded girl, I threw death to the floor and I pounded him until he stopped trying. To be the one on top of me. I had to laugh, the burn in my belly, the dust turns to you. I am not real. I am a knock on a faraway door, the door inside the night made of black sounds. The hum that the day turns to light. But I stayed down like a wild cat in the woods. I let the light fall over my body and nobody saw where I went. I pushed against the earth, I was sucked into the sky. Baby, on my floor made of sticks, the fire is always alive in this place. Down, I am nothing I say and all that I do. If you notice it matters and if you don’t it’s a waste. The pounding, the hum of the black panther, the sucubus demon the oracle walks upon. I told you everything I know and my words spun like a silver web, I caught you and you didn’t even see the cage I live in. My body is a cage. A sacred golden cage with a throne made of ice and a fire in the middle. Above my cage is a moon hanging upside down dropping words into my mouth, promising me the light. I hear you. I hear dead bodies, I hear songs sung by torture. I hear the one carrying the keys walking back and forth down the invisible halls, glass halls with glass floors, cracks everywhere. Mary holding Jesus inside of everyone’s cage. Stars in the ceiling, my head is inside a circle of spinning stars. Can you see what you’ve done? Can you take down
the sky, pull up the ground. Be happy in a golden cage, a forest panther. Black and brave. The transformation, fire caught on camera. She tells you the truth and the truth is a venom. Black panther, and the spider who weaves. Heart snake and the memory that breathes. My torn skin of starlight, dark sky of song. This little window you watch through, this little space you call home. This little window and you haven’t seen what you inhabit, this little space and you haven’t welcomed your body back home. The fire and the primal cause, my breathing hum into the heavy silence of every yantra ever born. It’s in every word, not just some. It’s in every touch not just sex. It’s in every gesture, not just kindness. It’s the it of the point. The middle of a diffused encounter, it’s a buzzing. This needle breaking skin, sewing bodies back together, bringing us into her triangle of destruction. Are you afraid? Yes. We die. We die hard trying to mount the one pounding. Transformation, the deadly hot fire of perfected love. The fire made of human sticks, the black panther lying upon the throne. Golden bars, silver webs, bodies dangle as I throw pink roses everywhere saying thank you for dinner. I wasn’t afraid. I was seated upon ice, melting myself into mirrors shaped like snowflakes. I know my words don’t matter. The blind can’t read a thing, but grope through sentences pretending my words are simply eyes. Look a little harder at the invisible page, behind the useless words, the blue deadly fire. It’s written all over your face. How this body rages like a storm sitting quietly, regally like a satisfied cat. Control the storm, control my reign, control the heat. Go ahead and try. Life in a body bag, life lashing out in desperate song. Moving, keep moving. Heavy headed thoughts, you didn’t want what the night held, you wanted memories of sticks and daylight status. There is no you, not a me in sight. Yantra body, the God held high above the fire. Words spiral in the smoke. Sticks hang from silver webs, poison drips and I drink wet souls like honey. Buzz kill. The humming. I hear forest beasts and I want out of my golden cage, crystal receiver. Black antenna, mountains that rip open earth, valleys that tear through smooth open legs, it’s this body, hail the virgin in between us who cries for her son. Hail the virgin who holds death perfectly still as a baby. Hail the virgin who burns in hell fire, the witch who sinks us all. “God is your father,” she told him. “Go and die.” Die for God on a stick. Put your hat on, sharp headed needle, pierce the sky, give me blood. Cover your body in holes for the snake. The traveling silver snake that was born from the web. Heart snake, body fire. Rapid blue water, unstruck sound. Silent fire. A wild feline sitting on a throne made of ice. A disc made of moon. I am waiting for you. And it’s all true about the cannibals and how we have been protected. But no good thing lasts forever and the man with the keys is unlocking the doors, and will you leave and be free and possibly eaten?

The new moon tells me everything. I have a million ears. I wish I didn’t. I have only one flower and it hides out in the deep forest. It’s the first and only flower ever born, beneath beams of moonlight, inside a cave with a hole in the top, the flower, embedded in crystal. The source of humming is the flower’s soul. The dying happens slowly and we all feel afraid of her moon stories. Don’t cling to the cage, remember the flower. The deep forest goddess flower that nobody but God has ever seen.

And still I move for you growing songs like butterflies. And still I love every word, every step of daylight. And still I kill you softly, like I turn everything back into the beginning. Unstruck. Body on body. Burning on the cross, hanging from a thread. She’s an immaculate empty black box of ether that contains nothing with bones or skin. The black velvet of her love outlasts even your dream of a golden morning rising. I hope you know what that means. She is a white shell. Colorless love, white perfect beauty. I hear my sacred flower. God knows everything. Thank you is all I have. Beloved walls, keep me inside you forever imaging morning, my little window. My soul deep in the forest humming, kissing dream eyes that lead into the silent places like caves with holes in the top. A hole filled with moonlight. The sun without a shadow. You without a body, a soft luster in the the center of my petals glowing in a place nobody will ever see, but me. I know God’s abode, fragile immortal uncoiled open to her. Felt. The world inside feels it all, I feel God…

and I imagine God has a face just like yours.

And I thought those were my final words but I was wrong. I want to say I’m sorry I am in a distant land. My deepest anchor is my love of what this means, the most painful words of all, I write in translucent blood beneath your feet. You are a mountain and I am the space that fills your world. I write how much I meant to love but could not find the words to tell you, how I left or why my words still echo like searching ghosts in my broken heart. Still searching for you to say what I never said. Don’t leave me here  all alone in the sky. Don’t make me invisible. Don’t die without me. Don’t cry when I’m gone. If I go, the winds take me back to the first time my hand was warm. Struck and loved without any words or reasons. And then the oceans and rivers were made so I could swim and drown and search  for you. And then the earth so I could grow as a seed deep in your ground so you would never forget me. Then after a milion years of pain when I found you again, you would see me in your eyes and my silence and my words would matter and we would be the fire and we would know that God rises and God falls and we would have heavenly bodies and hell would only be the disguise of man. We would find the words to the song and we would be the melody that fills the heartflower with endless light. But we would suffer because we would once again, know death and we would feel desperate and separate but God would breath into us the unbreakable breath of infinity and we would no longer be alone but eclipsed and purely barren like the petals of the only flower ever born. You in my heart as the world and anything that ever mattered or existed.  I know I’m far away, like a ghost in the ocean mist, I know I’m too close to see. I feel God. I feel you as every smoky flame and every velvet moon. I know you only as the tender flower in my heart crying out to the son of God with breath and blood and the pain of love…

approaching death with a yearning heart.

Take me back and I don’t know where. But it’s love that breaks everything and it’s you that found me looking for my lost love, who heard the sky and ocean and earth in my moon words, and who shined like God over the dark sea. My world came closer to earth because of you and now I can almost feel the flower drinking my soul deep inside the womb of reaching while dying.

Into you, the feeling of everything. Sharada Devi

in my dark place i want your light


I could go back to the hospital. I could die in the heat like a summer flower. I could turn you into an echo. When you get too dangerous I could erase you from the sky. I could move everything into another room. I could find knives and use them all. I could offer myself, a weary sacrifice to the gauntlet. I’m nobody and I wish you could do better than my words that are dry and old. Old tears that fall, never a new drop of sea. Sadness that goes unopen until they cut me again. Open your smile, heartbeat to the world. Open your soul, blood and guts dropped on the floor. You’re just a mess of wounds and tangled blood snakes. You’re barely a shadow beneath a tree anymore. I turned around, I tried to fight, I keep trying to buy old things back. I’m stuck on a flagpole. I’m waving to come. My way, I’ve broken the vows and I’ve taught the religions. I’ve torn off my clothes and I’ve hid behind skin. I’ve closed my eyes to you but you thought you saw. I’m a ribcage. I’m the veins on a leaf. I’m the night you can’t find stars, I’m the most depressing thing. A promise that got held too long, a rock never thrown. A child too harmed to see clearly the rainbow. I talk about me, there was you. I’m sorry there was you, over me. I’m sorry the sky is so low and the tragedy so virile. I’m sorry the cat is so thin and the doorway so wide. I’m sorry the song plays all night and the flowers are withered. I’m sorry about me, most of all, me aching as if it mattered. And it’s love that I kill to have more. And it’s this body that betrays me, I see that I tore her. Paper I told you, I’m only paper. It’s hard to know how to fold or crumble myself in a way that could ever work. I wait for the end, you are right. I keep moving. I don’t stop. He walks closely behind me. She is Kali, you could call her my torturer. She only hurts me and laughs while I desperately gather myself back into a pile. You don’t understand nobody is immune. I walk on water when I’m not crying on the floor. Could I get it right. Something innately perfect. Could I stop bleeding from her wrath. Her endless trappings, such a bitch of horror and I hold her hand. I have no one else. I lay on dirty floors with nothing to do. She moves me to hurt me and to hurt you. She thinks we don’t know and I think she’s right. I want to know. To have hurt enough, but I never can…get her. To know her, love her. Penetration. He said he was thinking of hawks and ramakrishna, and how smoke rises prayers to God. I was thinking about nothing. You were a river, not me. I’m empty. A waiting vessel to be filled. Pain and loss. You don’t really want to know about me. I tell good lofty stories because I care. Because I’m sad you can’t do better than me. Stars shine so radiantly while I cry “why?” to death. Why can’t you just commit and let me go? He walks. I should have appreciation. I should abandon fear of blood and guts. Tears and acid rain. Pain burning forest fires, stars that don’t even care what happens…it’s because of him. I should abandon myself inside all these things because of him, how he loves her to death inside the world of endless dying. He walks and I hear his footsteps, I see her listening, hearing and setting traps everywhere for me. She is alive inside the stabbing. I’m not the one taking the sun from you, believe me. I’m not anyone. I talk about myself because I’ve gone insane in this world of silent violence. I want you to listen, listen and see. There is the light that rises and there is the light that falls. I am neither. I am suspended. Like a sword splitting wind. Like a river splitting light. Animated by you, for you, because of you. Worthless unless we sink as low as our evil, the rapture has teeth. We bite what we want. And so blood is everywhere. I could die again. I will. I give everything away. I don’t know how. To die without rising again and that’s my problem. I keep rising, a pale sun over a dead world. I grow everything in this rain, my God pain. My horrifying dream body. My seduction by fire. It all ends however, at a point before dawn. We never said a word, we simply disappeared.
I am obsolete. I am buried in you. Treasure, want me. The jewel of the ancient wound. The light in the blackened blood. The strokes of sunlight up your spine. I am the last one, the lost one, the only one and I’m sorry. Sorry that love is a chain that can’t be broken. Sorry we dangle from her neck, broken and stuck forever in each other as tears and hope. I hope you see yourself in me. I see you everywhere. Wounds that shine her remedy. Heal, heal the ripped paper. It’s all blowing in the winds of me. The answer that offers nothing…

in my dark place I want your light.
Sharada Devi


My arms. My cat. I am a tree.


When the bird hissed I knew my time had come. When she curled her knuckles and the swan rose from her fists I knew. I knew the coil, the mortal swimmer, the wings that spun like diamonds inside the snake made of a man. Only you knew the sound of her cry, cold blue hands wrapped in blankets of ice, your eyes only knew where water melts like tears. I could have made you love me then, I probably did. I could have rose from the dead to see you one more time, I probably did. I was once alive. I could have been human, they said that I was, the other blue people, the people who don’t use words to speak. But I wasn’t a human and they were wrong, I have never been human. I have been something for a very long time, a long lonely list of nothing, a bucket for water taken to an empty well. I have been a part of these things they say only matter when you notice the hiss of long ago, the promise that counts every second as God loops and exhales. And so when I died nobody cared, not like they cared for the sight of her reptile body. Nobody ever cares about the parts inside that don’t seduce the animal’s hungry eyes, the parts of my silent secret hidden, and yet I don’t ever hide. Well, I am hidden, it’s the path of hiding. You don’t know what I mean, only quietly do your hands reach the sky. The sky is no longer real for either of us, the sky is hanging on the edge of her smoky eyes, the rage of heavenly fire, the knife through my empty heart. Open for you, like pain in a dress that dances and sings and points the other way…my eyes are filled with a million oceans of forgetting, the way it must be in a place like this, and still I never do. Forget the wanderer. It’s you, I don’t forget the pain made of ocean blue. It’s you, pulling the water of their sorrow. The pain made of ocean blue, the tears of us that sunk to the bottom of an aching world, the eyes inside of me that see, you my wounded bird. The mortal swimmer, the tears of man. I must be exactly as the gods have planned, I must strike every soft cord just to hear you see me. Lightening means thunder. Storm. I am drowning because I want to. And I will, know you beneath me as death under water, and I will do all the rest inside the smoke that rises. All the suns that left as dying balls of fire, all the returning empty mornings…I will fall from like bodies that could never match. I knew you would leave once the shadow disappeared, my matchless other, and my eyes were only the eyes of a human then and still you saw the water from before. I knew it was only a matter of drawing a deeper hole, a darker picture of the night room. Hiss inside me, hiss into me, beat me with white fists, take me inside your only wings. It’s only me, the light forever. Smiling black temptation, hold my hand death maker. I know, it’s all about the sun that never rises. As long as the night is mine. I’m yours, you can take her back scar eyes. Red heaven where the night sits, there isn’t anything.

There is the cat watching from the arms of trees. My arms. My cat. I am a tree.

And if I make no sense and if you are a snake upon the earth and if you don’t hear her calling while you slither looking for holes and food…and if my heart is not your home and if the pain is just too much…pain breaking everything solid. I would say go into the trees and cover her roots with your skin. Put your face in her dirt and water God’s feet. I told you real flowers are invisible, the rest are decoration and distraction. I told you a little bird sits on every unseen petal and a little snake is wrapped around every slender stem. That is the story of how to make love. God is not sexuality, don’t be sleazy. God is real. Love is real. Don’t hide behind your product grinning for a buyer, don’t be a whore and a liar. Love is deeper and the word is unknown. Know your lover inside. Stop hiding from the rapist. Pull the black blanket over your head. What I say is kill yourself by loving me. I’ve done this. I know you. Sexuality is a prism and God has eyes everywhere hiding. You see what you want to see. You touch what you are. Go to the top and pull all her flowers and kill all her stars and melt all her snow. Go to the top alone with only me.  It’s quiet inside deep flames made of glass. God isn’t real, God is how God is. I am you and I am clawing at the window like a cat with a bird in her mouth. I bring everything to your feet. God, cover me in silence and the death of every flower. Only then will I find your eyes in my bleeding, aching, starving, leaking, broken ocean heart. I am a whale, as blue as ancient glass. As quiet as a teardrop. As resonant as the thunder of fucking that feeds wild snakes. I can’t go wrong. Don’t try to stop me. It’s me. The end and the first kiss of life that is love. Innocent blue lake love. Glass lake. My eyes were blue just like yours. My name was written on secret fish, my sound was inside and I heard the first words that God spoke,

“Hurt me, feel the hurting water, stop moving, grow fruit that hurts, make colors, taste the wind. I am watching. I am God fucking you all.”

Sharada Devi


midnight in the forest of stars


There was a red spark and then the light fell, somewhere far, somewhere. I could hear you starlight, breathing for me, red fire. I held still for you, burn inside of me, burn until tomorrow. Red spark, I fell, felt the starlight breathing, my heart dragon swooning, yellow children, dirt covered in leaves. Beneath the trees, the trees I made for you to find me in. Alone, open slowly the jagged edge of her mystery light. I wanted to want you, I wanted naked light to fall from cold stars. Warm earth, the listening ear. Far down I heard you, the center of red, silver blue light. There is nobody else. There is the dark sword waiting, there is the paper tree in the shallow moonlight. There is the lonely rock I stand on reaching for a home in you. There is the cut of shadow too soft to hold, my searching hands. This is the top of the world, there is only this, everywhere calling. Midnight. Caught in midnight, a story too deep. The sharp rocks and the silent leaves that sit and listen. Help me find her, the warm dream. Midnight. Alone by silence and by her whisper that hooks. I’m hooked to you, the moon who could have been the sun, it’s too much, this walk we take into nothing. The tip of the red finger spoke from the hidden flame, I felt the morning but could not see her face. The voice said to me quietly, “Get down on the earth.” Lonely white fading bodies, midnight traveled through us and we knew, we were the thread of this echo through the madness of night. I want what you are, black turning white like a song turns to silence. Eyes, the sky. I was there. Everything I wanted was the halo that spun above you in the dark. I saw, I alone saw the halo flaming, red spark. A star that sat on your head, the blue light from nothing. A silver throne inside the skull of midnight. I found the ghosts that hid in me. It was dark and there were cats hiding everywhere in the trees. Wild dark cats with pouncing eyes, black knives that feel like feathers. Only silence, warm floors inside the forest sky, looking down. There is nobody here dream snake. Dark light holding moon shapes, sounds from thoughts that spun, souls that caught her like a wild heat. “I am you,” said the song that never stopped. I am the unseen flower, the glowing pearl. I am a spark that is only a name. You, my dark sword. Hide.

Torn from me, this hand I held still, this flower that makes war with the gods. Could you love a storm that rips the water from the earth and peels the flowers from the snake? Petals of serpent, I shed the skin of life to find you. Perfect, starlight. Falling moonlight. Crystal demon song, I sing to the angels. I sing inside, of you the me, the holder of ecstasy, the eyes of the watching ground. The trees along the lonely road. Nobody cares whose alone in this forest. Midnight, safely inside my shell. Hollow eternal
unbreakable wind, I have always been haunted by you. I found a ghost, beloved. White skin shines from the pile of death, burning. I said,
“Will you?” And answers don’t come until the next day and so I listen to my words leave like snake through the fallen shadow, rustling blue leaves, dark blue skies, blue crystal eye fire. It was more simple than a tear that remembers why we cry. I cry the name of night through you.
Light, I called you like you were made from forever, my forever. Forgetting myself like a dream that leaves my sadness in a lonely rose. A red rose, a red spark. My light, eyes of stone. Thorn of hearts, tangled bleeding pain inside this empty kiss,

all this means God.

I know you midnight. I know where the bridge is. I know how home crumbles. I know inside the fire that burns without any smoke or ash or evidence of us. I know words leave and you will too. Goodbye takes so long to say. Push my morning away, let me die on the dark road to nowhere, this sword has no handle, this heart has no raft. I drown in the wind beneath the scar of you, I die from the heartache of dry branches and leaves. Trees crowned by shadow, moon bound by him. Reaching into me looking for heaven when I was only a hollow cloud filled with yesterday. Reaching into me for the fire of death, who I kill to find you is everyone. There is no one, there is me counting breaths until I reach the depths of you. Mountain quiet shimmer. You whisper like a mountain far away, far and high. I’m headed home tomorrow, mountain crown. High on you. This is God, my warm dream of sunlight. Inside of midnight reaching into snakes and fire. What is love if finding is forgetting. Myself forever as the invisible kiss, flowers upon my lips. I can say no more.

She is a secret. I hope you find her.

God. Love. Everything I hid in the trees. You, kitten. It’s you. Soft purr of God. It doesn’t always have to hurt. My aching blade, this mess of bodies that cry I love you into the face of skin, I hope it’s not too late to die. Soul that leaves my eyes and flies to find you, it’s this song. It’s all a dream. It’s this death, a kiss of passion. It’s all her perfect heart, for you to find. The crack. The midnight crack of fate. Broken hearts are God.
Broken, I’m broken. You’re broken. We suffer to love the star, the sharp single star. A drop of red spark, blood song. Get down. Get inside of her earth and pound her to tears. Rain on me storm chaser. Thunder that brings thunder. Death that brings light. This is who we are,

midnight in the forest of stars.
Sharada Devi