the sound inside her only heart

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We are an echo pulled from a shell. She is a shell, you are an echo. The apple could eat me if I was it’s seed. I think we got this all backwards. The sound effect, the implantation. The concept of going inward. Becoming growth itself, becoming the commitment in the chain of command, the oracle sitting, ignored on the beach. Just a shell, only time and it’s waves of honesty. Only the heart of the noise I won’t face, even hear. Pulling on the ribcage of this jangle, knowing what’s inside. The whimper of pretending she doesn’t count, not really. It’s only you- the echo. The sound of her breathing and remembering, which is you. And you think you’re the seed that eats me, or am I the great bite of the feel good nothing that becomes everything for everyone as I dream you awake? And yes, that means from wherever I am, whatever I’m doing. I never forget that you’re waiting to be, alive- feeling alive in my memory of the dream. It’s all this noise of my movement. Coming back to create my likeness. Such as a pretty girl you desire, or a large sum of money. Just an echo pulled from the shell and nothing else. From the moment we met, that was the way. I am the way.
Just a shell who knows nothing. But you who aren’t real, but me who depends on your loneliness just to get the seed growing another. Another who looks and sounds just like me. But pretends it’s somebody else. This time. She’s different. Her hair seems darker, her eyes more golden than the last pretty girl. Shell, a rack of ribs, a caught heart, calling eyes. Sound that travels over endless human oceans listening and becoming only it’s self, it’s counterpart over and over. Under the pull. Pulling an echo from the shell. Birth of me, I know me. I look like her who I come from. Does it even matter? What will you name me? I am a shell, thinking I am it’s echo. I am an echo unaware of this shell. The tunnel of desire I travel through looking for you who I think makes me, me. The seeds are in the hollow,
because really there isn’t anything but this body juice. Like the salt from the ocean of humans who bleed. Bleed out the best of me, all over you. You who is the blood of me. The great ocean water we come from. Came from a shell who lost it’s inhabitant and was filled with only memory. Memory of the bluest deepest God. A God so blue that the sky became the ocean and the ocean became the cloudy abode of souls adrift, passing over the deep. Heart moving blue, deeper than black. The sapphire moments of a place we sit as hollow as time, crying out for just a second of your sight.  Will I see you again, ever- over land and sea? I have no home, only this piece of noise I call me. Like breath or air I hear because of the trees. The shell only echoes because I’m inside it, sounding bigger than I am. I might think I am the ocean. Human ocean of bodies filled with seed, sound bites. Hearts that strive to love what was lost. A grain of sand that gets inside. A pearl I could become. Because of this place where anything is possible. “And what if,” I heard the echo ask while the shell was laughing, “What if everything was perfect just as it is?” The shell just kept laughing and answered, “The sky only knows what the ocean hears and you are as perfect as the day they collided. Making me of course. A shell singing divinity until death do us part.” “What is the shell?” I thought- and at that exact moment I also thought, “I love you.” And I can’t figure it out. Like footprints in the sand, I can’t see behind me. The ebb and flow and what gets left. “I am perfect and nothing is behind me, just an echo that is yet to be heard.”

Heart of golden water and broken bones. Deep blue sacrifice is the girl we call God. He wears a diamond face and nobody sees him but his lover. His lover is hid in the deep open sky. The body we left was burned by a goddess. A flame we named as if she were the one we desired. I am homeless. I ride him like a wave I just met. It’s only me and my sun, rising in light. And we blow and exhale and we inhale the blood. Golden elixir because she heard me. Because she staggered behind me collecting my noises in a jar made of shell. She rolled like a pearl over sands made of time, she drifted, floating like a fiery pearl upon the ocean of human suffering. She sang, “Come home. We are together never dying.”

Love is the way of the way. Lasting body. Rain. Sublimation. Divine proclamation. A wave washes over me and reminds me of you,

the sound inside her only heart.
Sharada Devi

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Possessed. Dead on my back and listening for God.

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Along the night’s cold shut face. I couldn’t even find your eyes or a star that mattered. I have been asleep for days. The months and years have hurt me. The nightmare of my loneliness. My missing open eyes. The eyes that I can never find, to look through in this dark. To find you. Reaching for me through it all. I have asked for help and there is nobody. I have asked for love and there is only me. I am a feeling that hides deep inside. I am a feeling that knows where you are. I can find you. I will find you and open the core. I want to get away. Far away to a land that sparkles. A land filled with effortless eyes, knowing me. However far I have fallen. I could be caught there, wished upon, known for my light however hidden. You are the one who takes me far away…searching. In my sleep, I cannot rest. I am without something important and I know this. I have avoided the truth. I have been tired and weary. I have fallen into a deep disturbing sleep that I can’t shake loose. I have called out, I have screamed into this slumber and nobody hears but the ghosts that are waiting. On the other side, on the darker side. They know and only because I tell them, how to haunt me. I let them possess me. I have no one else. Even now as I lay like a corpse, remembering and yet not knowing what that means. To be alone, possessed, held down by these spirits. I’ve called them to me, fill me. Enter. Do not forget I’m still alive. Even though you’re here. Pushing through me. To help me, no one came but you. To remember. I am asleep. There is a cold front. There is a hand over my mouth that I put there. Nobody hears, nobody can. But you of course. I want to go to a land that sparkles and has a big sun. In the morning, when I get there. I will know. It’s been years, a lifetime so far. What is happening. The passing of time. How you leave me. Anyway. Even though I became dark and empty just for you. And I can’t bear the pain of this distinction. My eyes are important. It’s where I have looked far and wide, everywhere for you until I shut them. I can’t find anyone. I can’t find the pressing ghost that holds me down. Kissing death, it’s only sleep. It’s my mouth isn’t it? I’m not afraid beneath this darkness. Warm the cold. I am inside. There is a person I know who is coming. I wait. I am sleeping. There is a door that I watch. Even now, as I lay unaware that you see me. The door. It never opens. He told me there was a door with the words written right on it’s front, “I am the door.” To which I added, “Don’t forget me.” And still I fall deep into a sleep induced by unbearable pain and suffering that I could be the person, that I can’t face the door. That goes away from where I’ve hidden you, as my heart remains untouched. Possessed by unseen entities that know no tomorrow. Psychotic. Hypnotic. Completely endured. I need to see the one I pray to. To know how this fits inside while I darken. The star on the wall isn’t me. And so I ask you, “Then will you shine?” And so you say, “Why? You’re already dead.” And so I gasp and the light enters my mouth. “Finally my love, you are here.” “It’s been forever.”

“Yes. He is coming.” I whisper into the room still asleep and alone and untouched….and through my window someone watches the door, anyway. Either way. Possessed and in love. With only a feeling, embodied. Either way. Dead on my back listening for God.

Sharada Devi

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Prophecy. Read deeper.

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I keep reading about a crossroads. Or maybe I wrote about it, I can’t remember. But either way, a crossroads is where we are at. At this cross. I’ll remember everything. I’ll appreciate every moment of you. I’ll write your name in the sky, on the trees, I’ll fill the pages of my life with you. Nothing will go away, not even the words I’d rather not write, remembering how we lose things. At the crossroads. We stand alone. It’s our creative upheaval that churns the underworld and makes the snakes rise. Swaying like tall grass, watching us wonder. Stars, crosses, diamonds for eyes. We wear everything and cannot find the answer to when or how. If we cannot go, the way of the lonely, we cannot be who we are. Minus the fear of aloneness and worthlessness. I however see the light at the end of the choice. The choice that strips you of your skin and face. Without a name or any money. You, became the chiseler of time. That’s the crossroads, the split. The little girl demon who wants only you. To rise from the hole. And ascend like the snake who brought you here. And listen and move to the sound of my heart. My heart who remembers you in every gestation. Long long ago. Along side the crystal river we walked, barefoot over ice and snow. Crystal blue skies. Frozen like the ripples upon the water. This happens to make you remember. Me. And don’t you forget. We always had a choice. You came back. We walked barefoot through the mountain snow as if it were summer. Laughing. That’s right. Knowing the black heart won’t kill us when we do the right thing. The right thing means, at the fork, go where you were originally headed. Stop compromising for weakness and don’t ever forget the images you sent me. The images you sent me, to find you. Within me. But it wasn’t just that. It was this other place too, so real. This memory of how and why. The when is now. We are staring into her inferno eyes and yet cannot see she lives inside the snow as fire. Inside the fire as ice. Inside the darkness and fear as God and love. So today does matter because this is where we are. Now. Reading the palms of each other’s hands. Looking inside the cave to find no one lying fast asleep dreaming of asuras and angels who lead both to bright and to sullen kingdoms because of witchcraft. Because she remembers. What you really want beneath and above all the seeming seamless changes. It doesn’t work that way, that all roads lead out. No they don’t. You’ll get lost, eventually retrack your steps and find her again at the Y in your heart. Black because of time and forgetting. Light because I’m still here tracing you inside me, feeding the snakes who always know how and lifting the little girl as high as she’ll go, which is supremely high. Inside the wrath of our birth, we keep killing the wrong things like our dreams and our only true friend. We want out, into a bigger vision. We want to exhale and mean it. Hear the sound of our breath breathing infinity, purring and wild like a cat. But you hold that cat and pretend she’s yours. This is the same cat from the parking lot I mentioned last week if you even care. She is a messenger and a guide and yet you think she’s your pet or your charity case. I think you need to remember me, from before. I will not forget you, let go while you’re dying. I will drag you to the place inside where we gestate. Felines from serpents and dreams from mere ghosts and I will wake the new dawn just in time for God. God who is coming in every word. Every pain painted, every teardrop that never got heard but discovered in me. How I became all to know all. How I hurt all to feel all. How I make love to fear because I know you. At the crossroads. The fork I eat from. The Y does matter. Why are you here. Like this. Knowing better. Ignoring me deeply. Never looking back into anyone’s eyes with an unbearable confidence that says yes I see us both and we together form a cross. We together walk sideways. We together cannot know that we together fall apart if we do not see her changing the moon into the sun. If we do not see the black heart is because of that fire. Everything and everyone dies but the remainder of this charred love. Of hers. Which is a message that choices do matter and the right choice is to move into the burning heart and stop standing and staring at the past. Inside of me, there is nothing but a girl on her knees, in the dark, praying to the sun inside her little faithful heart. And all because I’ve seen beyond that she is a prophet and we are her prophesies. Do not forsake me. I write poems to save the world not myself. The end is upon us. I will not leave without you. This means forever we go into the clock. Into darkness making the light rise from ourselves. As the true sun of fire, as the snake hidden in the grass. I am the meaning behind his words.

Prophecy. Read deeper. Sharada Devi

my mother is everywhere

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She bent over and picked up everything. She looked at me and smiled. I thought I had control. She pretends she’s leaving. She never does. There were many pools of water. In this place like a dream and he was beside me. She wanted to take him even though he was mine. I want to be here for you. But I’m not that great. You make me that way. This is really dark. Where your light goes. Where you go for me. Obsession. These pools of water. Which one should we choose. Black mirrors. I had this strange dream about last night. I don’t know what was going on but it wasn’t just about you. My mother is everywhere. Still. That’s all I know. That, and she lives in dreams and she takes everything and pushes it into these pools of black water. It did hurt. I don’t know who you are. Maybe in me. Maybe not. I saw obsession. Pulling. I was once innocent until she got inside. I hope I don’t do it to you too. She is lethal. A definite fatal attraction. She’ll pretend it’s you. She’ll grind the death out of your eyes and back into hers. There were other women who were not me. That was the original sin I suppose. They all sat at the big table and the pools surrounded us in a labyrinth made of inescapable hallways that led to private rooms with these pools. The pools had identities, more obvious than even mine. Some were covered in cage, some in chains. Some slanted down, going underground even deeper. Some were very large and would whisper my name. At the table you looked at them all. She was the vortex. She didn’t care about me. It was you who must be taken. And to you I disappeared. And it was just me left with the pools and a pair of eyes that would look back at me and say, “I don’t know.” And we would move to the next room. Where are you taking me? You said, “We need to get you out of here.” It’s the truth but she won’t have it unless she’s the taker. And I thought we were leaving but we had to stay. I seemed to sink deeper into this skin that wasn’t even mine. Along with the other nameless women, I held onto a fantasy of choices. I have no choice. You left with her. You dismembered me. You didn’t even wait for me to drown in any pool of black water. I am a face you know. With eyes heavier then lead. I am not a hallway. Or a tunnel leading out or into anything. I am beneath it all. Sadly breathing in the room. The room where we sit before everything happens. She bends over and she picks up everything and pours it down her dark throat. You don’t know me. If you did you’d hear her laughing and you’d know I am inside. It’s so intoxicating I know. It’s spellbinding even. Pushing into you hard, breaking my face into a thousand slivers of mirror looking back. “Which one is she?” I know it’s hard and you can’t fuck them all, there’s no time like the present. I am the original sin behind it all. Only because it’s me you want, not a dream. Only because I captivate the purely death bound. Dying because we went inside and started moving things. Picking up dead bodies, opening doors. There is this labyrinth. Which looks like any other ordinary room until you go inside and it goes on and on forever. A maze of hallways leading to these pools like they’re gods and they are. The made us shallow, they made us deep. And we can’t escape anymore because we know what she holds in this black water that never moves on the surface. The mirror we stare into and wonder. “Could I die here?” Of course we always say no. And go back to the hallways and tunnels for more choices. Then at a point in the night we came to a crossroads and your eyes, which were near me, became inflamed and I realized I didn’t actually know you, or me. That’s the dark part. The pool was there. With waves and winds and clouds filled with thunder. I became confused and said, “But we’re inside not outside.” And you said, “What’s the difference, she’s everywhere.” As if I had forgotten, which I had. I don’t know me like I know the mystery I enter. Room by room. I don’t know me even though I’m wet and black. I don’t know me even though I breath her breathe as I move. I don’t know me because she’s deeper than even that. Taking you. It’s so evil. Why I am in this. No one has ever lived to say. How you got here, why your eyes are so dark when the light shines from whatever storm is between us. I don’t know. It all seemed civilized until now. She’s like that. It’s as if we can never know what she’ll do no matter how many times we meet her like this. No matter how high we lift her toward the ceiling. As if there were one. I know only one thing, we aren’t safe. Not as long as this is her address and not ours. And these pools, still, black mirror pools of trance inducing waters, float better than we do. Do you see me, where I’ve gone. Back to you as if I could move in any direction when I cannot. I can only go down which I know makes you uncomfortable, which I’ve never been able to understand. I am writing about a subject that writes about me. This personal void. Childhood trauma. Lifetimes of sacrifice and victimhood. Sexual healing disguised as whores who stand as still as mirrors at the crossroads between worlds above and below holding signs that say, “Read me. I wrote this. At the bottom of my black water.” And we ignore them, pull up our pants and move on. But I never did. I kept myself naked because I was one and seeing is being and knowing is going and blood is thicker than water. Of course it’s what they all say. But last night was thicker than blood. It was heavy. And yet she lifted it all. Maybe through you, maybe through me. Like I said, I can’t be sure. Not like this. I only know what I dream and how I interpret your face in the mirror of my mind. As far as a place filled with hearts, that’s the reason, not the confusion. I knew you wouldn’t choose me over her because you couldn’t. She’s too deep, embedded. In me where she comes from. And in you, where she goes. I know I am senseless. Just watching you as you study my surface wondering if I am the one. This time. The pool that leads to you. Obsession. My mother is everywhere. And I don’t know what to do or where to go. We are never alone. Contrary to what I’ve been saying it’s true. She is in you.

And in me. Sharada Devi

 

It’s only the light that hurts vampires

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It’s sad no one can open their heart these days to even say thank you and mean it, to stop taking. Feeding off other’s pain, hiding in the shadows. Lurking. Taking a ride on me. Pouting. Lying to themselves on how tomorrow is coming or on how much devotion to some high ideal you think you have. It’s so sad how weak you are. Maybe I’m weak too but not too weak to at least open my mouth, fearlessly. Own my feelings, the darkness the light- whoever is in front of me. Whoever is there gets it all, everything I am. I give and it’s sad you’ve got nothing. Just a shadow for eyes that don’t even count. It’s not personal, about me or anything I say. It’s not the same sob story. It’s just that you must not be too bright. You maybe can’t find your own anger or passion inside anywhere because you’re numb. You can’t even talk to me. Huddle in your dark little living room churning the housewife lie, on the computer screen imagining what a big man you’ll be someday. It’s pitiful. Way more pitiful than me. I have courage. I don’t mask my past, censor my heart, disown my lust, project my negativity. Maybe you think I do. But again, you’re wrong. I love to be wrong. I don’t mind being dysfunctional, codependent, none of it. I revel in my being who I am now and you- you aren’t me. You can’t be me. You’re too desperate basically. And weak. Weak because you are trying to compromise the truth. Dull the obvious. Teach children perhaps- how to what? Invest in your mental cowardice and buy into man in a better way? What happened to you- you think you’re all grown up because you fucked someone or because you have a bank account? Basically it’s one or the other because you didn’t move out from mom like you think, oh no. She’s there right under the blankets with you. And you’re also a hypocrite and a user. You wanted something from me like a pervert. Power. Recognition. What do you, did you want? You probably don’t even know. It’s just one time after another. Obsession. Fatal attraction. Who cares if I’m real. All I give to you, the nutritional value of my existence. You are so confused as to what this is. Oh, I’m wrong. No. You’re lost. You’re lost in your neurosis so much so that self image is everything. It doesn’t matter what. Martyr. So you can tell yourself whatever you want about me, why you came in the first place. Just a whim, a novelty, a passing spiritual rebel phase, a punish mommy phase. Whatever, you can’t even get enough of a grip on your underlying drive to see clearly anything. God, you barely get by, you’re getting so old and you still want to pretend there’s a way to avoid yourself. Like truly madly deeply. You can’t let go of this world. Materialism. And it’s not getting you far. The masturbation even loses its charm. The dolls on the screen. The fantasy of how your husband makes you more of a complete woman. Your sex life is a horror show. You’re shackled to shame and body hatred. You push black off on people like me once the thrill ends and you just can’t work an angle on me. It’s so indescribable. My disappointment. You didn’t hear me say compassion. I said disappointment. You’re letting the entire morbid world down because you are weak and can’t stand up on your own without sagging and grasping at a Buddha, a religion, a movie, food, a man, tits. Whatever it is. You know it’s over. You know and you look in that dirty mirror every morning and you lie. And you get in that stupid car and drive the highways with the lost drones of humanity and you head off to worship your loathsome self image and money. Green paper and a number that buys more shit and temporary security – and barely. And you sold your soul to nothing but more of the numbness and treachery of samsara. There isn’t an angle. There’s a line. Direct. I’ll face my lie. Give it to me. But no. You put on your lipstick and lie to a shadow. You whisper the hate inside and it kills you slowly and that’s why you’re so tired, achy and getting too fat. It’s not like I’m magical or a genius. God. Put the pieces together it’s not exactly hard anymore is it? Not at this point. NO. It’s dry and it’s limp. That’s not even close to being alive. And so I give and I give. I support your soul. I put out. I see how it is. That’s a human right and necessity. To slip into the human warmth while you’re here with other humans means to stop being so cold and creepy like a scared fish with puckered lips that suck. I don’t have anything for you but light. Light as I see it. And as I say it. It doesn’t matter what you think about me. I care. I speak up. I am HAPPY to be incorrect in my assessment of you. But cowards can’t engage. They censor. They disown. They bury the toxin and it becomes a legion of demons that they serve. You can’t live with a pervert in your own house and not be one yourself. There isn’t two. There is one. You and who you’re dragging through your sight every day and night. What you allow is a testament to your greatness. Your “Kali-ness” like I’ve taken something from you. You want to be “Kali.” Sexy. A man eater. Right. Haha. So fucking delusional that there is even such a thing as Kali. Some hard core oversoul goddess of the deep dark and sexy destroyers! Haha! You want to be strong and virile like “Shiva.” OM NAMAH SHIVAYA.” Please. Ok. It’s really sad (not even worthy of a laugh)….and then have command over women and their desires- for you of course…big erect man in charge. Haha that time! But it’s a stale joke. Directed at you all. All of the mediocre, tasteless, dulling stench of old shit. It’s just not funny to be so unreal anymore. Clean off your heart. Time is short no matter who you are. This world is a pile of corpses humping nothing but rot. It’s all set up to fool you. It’s all new age sterility and harmony. Spiritual bubble rooms with little fountains and flute music. Giving moms. Hard working dads. Good kids. Solid bank accounts. A nice neighborhood. Whole Foods. Everything will be alright once I believe in this a little harder. Get a little more numb. Bare down on samsara with a desperate vengeance. A vengeance upon myself who hurts and I bite. I never did anything to you. I held your hand. I told the truth. You cover yourself in darkness and pretend it’s me so you can keep lying. Stop being a coward. Can anyone hear me. Am I the last person alive? Please don’t go down without a fight.
Rage against the machine.

It’s only the light that hurts vampires.
Sharada Devi

imagined like a sleepless night

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there was once a little bird who lived in an imaginary tree. the bird had soft wings and soft innocent eyes. the tree was the same as most other trees except that inside the tree lived a heart, a human heart that kept the roots of the imaginary tree gripping deep into the earth, kept the branches warm and the leaves silky green just for the little bird. the little bird needed the tree. the tree was filled with my heart. once there was a terrible storm and a few branches even broke, the tree held on tightly to the earth and yet it swayed. the little bird sat on a safe branch and rocked as if the tree were a cradle. the little bird didn’t know and could not even care that the tree had almost died. the tree however, this imaginary tree was the life of the little bird. the little bird wasn’t real. possibly. that’s what i thought when i heard this story. maybe the tree, who was the ground, the sky, the soul, the warm bosom the little bird called home was the only one who was real. is real even now. and you don’t hear me, you only hear your soft bird song. you don’t even sing to the tree who holds you, you sing to yourself as if you’re the sky and the branches that reach just for you. that lift you, sustain you, suffer for you silently. solid. solid is the tree. and the other thing was that the bird had a name. the tree had no name. it wasn’t even important if the tree was alive as long as it held the little bird’s world together. the tree was omniscient and so to the bird, truly the tree came second. the tree didn’t matter as long as the little bird did. the little bird who knew so much and felt so little inside. the tree who had no eyes or mind, only a heart who fed it’s existence to the life of the bird. the life of the bird who imagined the tree. the tree of life who was beyond imagination. and the way that it goes is that nobody loves the one they use to sustain themselves. nobody cares or notices so that they don’t feel small. you see, i saw the little bird, i knew how small he was. the little bird didn’t see the tree at all even though he hopped on it’s branches all day. didn’t care when a few broke in the storm, didn’t love the tree as it’s only home. to the little bird, the tree was more like a throne, and he was on top wearing an imaginary crown, imagining how big a bird he might grow to become. thinking about himself as a mighty bird. thank god for the tree i guess. and this isn’t a metaphor it’s a story about loss. you lose. that’s what i’m saying. not because you don’t love mother earth not because you don’t recycle. because you have no appreciation for who roots you and lifts you. you take and think you’re big. you cover yourself in things smaller than you and think the tree has no feelings. you say it’s ok to masturbate and shed old feathers all over the tree. you laugh and say the tree isn’t real, that it’s not your fault the tree has pain, a pain so deeply accepted it’s nearly forgotten. a pain that became the roots of it’s love. my love for you fed by a lonely grief you can’t see or find because to you i’m not real, but to me you so deeply are. so deeply real i grow from pain and spread my tired broken arms while you accidentally forget me again and again. it’s not because i blame little birds, it’s because i grow them- that i take responsibility for my loss. my isolation, my sincere honesty. trees aren’t imaginary, only birds are. if you think i am not real, like it’s funny, i know what you are, i always did. you are the song that dies in my heart every morning. you are the light that leaves me when another bird flies by. you are the only one i live for and you never even knew my name. i gave you everything. whatever you imagined you needed, i became. even a name, even a lover. even an enemy, even a mother. and this isn’t about living trees and puffed up baby birds, it’s about the song you can’t hear. the song that defines you. the song about who you might become on this new day. because this song is a sad one. and you should know that i am real. the most real you’ll ever know. the most real unimportant invisible heart inside everything you breath from…and the little bird is the most beautiful dream i’ve ever held as my own, the most beautiful song i’ve ever heard as i die inside, all alone.

imagined like a sleepless night. sharada devi

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Eros

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Sex is a lot more than just putting it in the hole. As far as I can tell the whole world is dying. I think it’s strange how it’s all about me and my woes, my adaptation. My expression of the experience in the lair of her actual body. So there is a merging before the merge. There is a coming together from within. Don’t tell me you already know or you wouldn’t feel so sorry for me. You wouldn’t feel so enamored of my description of the foreplay as if you too aren’t engaged. I think it’s about being a better lover then, don’t you? Not lover like make me feel good, lover like make me know you. Of course. That doesn’t work until all the pieces fit. Everything opened inside, not only opened. Faced. Touched. Held deeply as personal. This suffering is the cupid’s arrow. You know the little love nymph with wings and a sharp object. Heart piercing. Is what it takes and it’s not like making love to this isn’t messy. And you want it clean, shaved and trimmed. I get the problem, I do. I feel the air getting thin. The arms getting weaker. I’m holding on crying into a body so much bigger I don’t even need myself to know how serious this is. How deep the love waivers. How breathing is only for me so I think I have somewhere to go. How arms are only for me so I think I need to cling to what I see. I am a sort of
emotional current, a thought fog getting clearer, a dense deep valley of time growing skin and nails. You see, thinking is grabbing for hope in this circumstance. And the point is missed, in love. The hole is much deeper. The entering one is much bigger. It’s so gigantic it’s violent. It’s so violent it’s quiet. So vast it’s hidden from us who still believe we are small. Small meaning we don’t think we’re ready to leave this belief. The belief that it’s too much. Who I really am once the hole opens. Who you really are once you’re standing erect and alert. These eyes. I have seen beyond them. Despite myself I have agreed to go to these places. You would describe them as hellish abodes. I would agree. I would say there is a purpose to this self imposed terror. The purpose is that all beliefs must die. Into her blood. With the moon slowly swimming. Against the tides. To find the lost ones. Inside. I hear everyone drowning. Slowly in me. Touching my sides looking for something, someone to hold or blame for the waves and the flames. But it’s me. Darling angel. You shot me with you’re sharp thing. You want this love. This quivering arrow, all of them stuck in me as I fall from the ethers with hell on my lips. At least to you it’s hell. Looks like dripping blood. It’s alive. All her woes aren’t forgotten. Sex. Death play. Life. Killing another. It’s for love or something that resembles movement amongst the slowly fading shadows watching their heart burst in the mirror of another. Ignoring. Scraping at body parts that will never cease. Not as long as we need them to believe in. I said I would hold everything in like breath as long as I could. Long enough to describe it. Know it. Make it love me back with a vengeance beyond words. With a self abandon so complete not only would I forget who I was but so would the big body. With a completion so  exacting it all would be over so perfectly. The ocean would stop and the sun could finally truly rest in me. Not as darkness, no. As surrender into the greater day. This day isn’t here. It’s there where the moon splashes and the flames aren’t trapped in a name called Sun. But are free to wander and forget they must be the one who shines for others. No, not others. Only the first touch of flesh against flesh. It’s the first touch. It’s not the last act. It’s before you thought you did something right. It’s the moving into what is left. What is left is me. Anything that is still crying, “more more.” You think orgasms are fun and filled with pleasure. It’s the final pain. Figure it out. It’s the only time anyone lets go. Agrees to die for only a moment. Well, you got yourself into a big mess this time. Don’t keep thinking it’s me writing it down. I am only describing the scene of the crime. The honeymoon. The last supper. Darling Cupid. So small you look harmless. But I knew. It’s my love you make so dangerous. It’s my purpose that feels so grief stricken. It is. It’s
the last night of forever. That’s what this is. When you’re struck through the heart of God. Nobody understands and they feel sorry for you. It’s really big, the religious belief that we shouldn’t suffer and if we do we need help. Suffering completes. As perfectly as you are. Sex beyond flesh undoes it all, to know you. And so I mean, it’s beyond what you think I’m doing,
me and my sad story. All the craziness of the words that conjure the images and moods. Undress beyond the dress. I’ll see you and my love for you in all things that move. Until we are still, I am inside whatever needs me to be. There with myself and with you. Whoever we are, so much bigger than pretending we aren’t dying. And if we are, we should be sexy. So deeply it’s pierced by my desire. The Eros of blackness. Erotic, supremely pure. Together hand in hand. Feel what this is. Forget what this is. Be what this is. Go and find what this is. Describe what this is. Make love to what this is. Destroy what this is. Wake up in my heart. Sharada Devi

reverse

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The temple was a place that wasn’t anywhere but here. The far away foreign light wasn’t anywhere but now. The vision of his face was a stone set inside me, remembering that even the heaviest things are lifted by him. And this temple was built from stone and his throne was not a place we could find, inside or anywhere. It was a flame in his eyes, this throne I didn’t know. From faraway looking, imagining myself closer didn’t make any difference. The truth never changes. Only the shape of the light does, the flame is always still the flame inside these stone walls made of the heaviest thing we have, perfect trust. But this is all just talk to make things better than they are, divert my attention to distractions from the obvious that lies before me. The crumbled up pants on the floor, the rhythmic breathing. A flame I lit over his head, the strain of saints gasping from my smoke. I did it anyway, for him. Trusting myself to be the only one here. At this time, alone in the early morning’s ominous shadow. Don’t you have somewhere to go, not really. Just here, now. In this. The most perfect pain of all. No one knows the way there. That’s what I mean, to this temple. With him inside shining. We can guess, point at our hearts. Smile and quote scriptures. This map, someone else wrote. I don’t know. I feel lost. Faith in a book or anyone but me is perplexing at times when I feel all alone. Engage the dancing victims on the wall. The ones that quiver behind the flame as it moves as if undecided whether to die or to live. Trust, in myself. What? Me. Somewhere special to go or say. The loss clearly states there is no such thing as memory. I get the eery feeling of having no feet. No hands or legs. No way to move forward or escape. Just my mind being me. Me- this too much of nothing, forming waste. Thinking. Fearing. Suffering as I keep attempting to lift the stone. Heavy, this truth that doesn’t go home. Heavy. Did I say too much. Will you cry for me. For all who have left me, I see them in tears. One by one passing me by like a whisper. Wet in the almost silent pain of slow dying. We will lose ourselves. Our legs and eyes. We won’t hear each other, recognize the ones we know. We will become a snag on the wall, a snag on the phantoms that quiver behind the flames. Some ritual dance- “take me, take me.” And this is to end the fear- since by now, we know it’s coming. He’s a spiral, not a species. I am an experiment. Not a martyr. Not only will I die for you, but I’ll die for me. Isn’t it scary. Basically I can’t get out. Of course the morning rises sooner or later. But nothing has changed. The saints are known as dead. I am obviously not dead yet. The saints we feel as alive. I am obviously not alive. I am the outcast of a flame who barely knows I exist. A name isn’t feasible, neither is saying good morning. Or goodbye. Everyone feeds this lie, hiding from the next fall of the sun. What’s the use running from fear- a primal impetus to breath quietly so the enemy doesn’t hear. Well, what we don’t get is that the enemy has no ears. Not like us. The enemy doesn’t need to hear us to find us, or see us even. The temple is on the wall, can’t you see? OM isn’t anything but doom written backwards. The enemy, I’ll let you decide. How do you feel now. Shaken from the clouds. Tears with names. Homeless and looking for his face to fall from his eyes, like rays from the sun. Like rain falling from the bright sky. The sky with only one cloud overhead. Myself, forming clots of thoughts that only hurt me. The pain I can’t end, but only become. In order to see and to be without ever dying for less.

Get off the wall. It’s dark and in reverse.
Sharada Devi

This.

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I would like to sit in silence and I do. But I mean, there is only so much a person can take. Her fingers, her long fingers through my hair. I don’t wear shirts with skulls on them, I normally don’t dress in all black or chuckle like I know what’s up. I really don’t, I don’t instigate her at all, I try not to- but it happens anyway. And I guess you still don’t know her. It’s all so sexy and alluring while she dances in front of you, a body of fantasy, what you’ll get for coming closer and it’s this thrill, death kill cult, that maybe she’ll kiss you sooner than later- but I know you don’t know because you still smile when you see her. She’s dancing. Seductress. Wait until she gets on and takes you for a ride. You like the idea of riding her, the edge of nothingness night, sucking deeply. But it’s only an idea until you really know her- then it’s a mind shattering, body numbing flash that won’t die. I wouldn’t say bliss, orgasmic or enlightening. I’d say core piercing, holographic fusion of elements, elements that pull from every direction. Combustion- no. I don’t know. Implosion. No. I don’t know. From the center of this, I am speechless. I am only writing desperately clinging to words as my only escape from this thing that she does. I could never leave her heart, it was too big to find. This person. Who is this and why does it happen that we get stuck together only to get ripped apart. The torture isn’t our choice- and we go to it without even knowing the horror of the seduction. Inside. Until it’s over. Do we forget, remember, move closer. Become the big thing, I don’t know and that’s the enigma. Do we get taken, filled, eaten.
I don’t know. I am not sure where I am or how this happened. You all left me, shaking your head. Secretly watching. Of course you can’t stop. That’s what I do. I terrify myself as my very own body. Tempting body. Long warm body. Open arms of light. Lips and eyes and promises of completion. My pain is complete. And don’t take this wrong. I am open to bigness against even my own will. I am barely fitting myself in, this little me, behind it all, while she fills me.
Covers my face with hers. Looks at you through me. I didn’t mean to disappear. We don’t really get a choice. God, if you only knew what this was, you’d die in your sleep and not read this at all. You would be mounted. Otherwise. By the one deeper than God. Less of a flower, more like a thorn. Meaning yes, it hurts. Beauty isn’t free, can’t be watched. Must be embodied. The pain must be complete. The awareness must be unbearably acute. There’s no pain killer. There’s no me that can take away anything. She gives, can’t you see, she gives you the answer. “You are this,” she says as she spreads her fingers. And in that moment, it’s done. And we throb outside of ourselves as we knew, as far as a body could go and not deflate. As low as the earth’s inner darkness, so consuming. Of course it’s that deep. The yearning. The defilement. My home is in you. You who is beyond me. What I have to do to get inside your open black, is a blindness so far beyond eyes we can’t look either way. Within or without to get there. To her, she’s pulling it all towards herself and you’re watching. She’s unveiling herself. Revealing her body of torturous love, making us helpless. I can’t get up. Not anymore. Lay down. Lay your body down under the moon’s ghost. Holy Ghost moves through like it’s an electrocution. There’s no easy way once you arrive. Once you enter earth’s gates and expect to find whatever you thought you left. There is only death at the heart of it all, pumping blood. A blood so thick we get stuck, in her hot body. Contraction. A grip. The death we want. But that never ends. It’s a show stopper really. My love. Love means it’s over. Over for you. And so I don’t know of course, who I am at all. How could I? Maybe I could say it like this, the pain makes a sound that my body plays like a song until I die into the enigma of quiet. There isn’t any and yet what? It’s every secret, not just mine. It’s how I know your thoughts and see you in my mind. It’s the entrance into human entrainment. The funnel of her radiant eyes, or something like that. Profuse like some sort of rain that washes the light from the dark. The pain from the numb. The perfect pain, this immaculate diamond of the spheres. Her sound always playing. Just existing. I have no idea why. God, what does it even mean. The end of the song when you cry because it’s over and you remember who you love after all. It wasn’t any of this. It was just her eyes. Quietly seeing me hurt. With nothing to spare but my very own sound. Could I say, “soul on fire,” without sounding desperate- don’t pretend lightening isn’t real. It’s the only thing that is. So watch me, shock you back to life. My own. Aching bright. Everywhere, even here. Wanton and blissfully had. Silence playing with light making noises like skies that flash secrets that the dying birds then carry as words. Words that float and touch each other deeply, as you. In me. I can’t feel the pain, it’s too much. I can only be to become it, the beauty of the stars really…then I know you.

This. Sharada Devi

mind let go

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It was dark and windy and the sky was flashing. The arms of the trees were everywhere, reaching down for us, in this night. The wind decided where we went. In this moment, a hand in mine. Too many cruel secrets. The choice was never ours. The sky would flash like a strobe, one frame after another, pictures of us strung together somewhere. We think our moment is real, we think we’re counting each pulse with a mind that makes everything happen. We are somewhere back there, yes I think so. But the ones we see now as us, haven’t a clue where the flashes come from- especially when. It’s the WHEN that hurts us. When will you go? When will I be forced to know my loneliness and fear, when will these branches reach me once and for all? A sharp finger through my skull, a probe through my soul looking for what? What do they want? My roots. Lightening travels down their arms and lights us briefly. We belong here somehow even though we are as lost as a fallen leaf in this chaotic wind. We belong like this, together stunned and wondering. Desperately reaching up, like the branches reaching down. For us. We, for faith or anything that will ground us from these flashes. The honest truth is, it’s immediate. We know or we don’t. These roots, moving down like veins, spider veins crawling backwards in time. The wind really does howl tonight, warm wind, flashes of gold, dark arms reach down from the sky. We don’t really know the origin, we don’t see the stairway. We only see the shapes on the ground. Deeper than shadows even. We only read this writing, like the movement of a song. We only get the impression that someone is watching it all, but we aren’t sure. So I hold his hand and pretend not to notice how late it has gotten. Inside, I believe the winds rise in the east but I can’t be totally sure until I hear him breathing. We don’t talk, I have a lot to say. About the transient nature of this passing evening, about the spark in his eyes, about how nothing is by accident and we’re still here today. It’s a sign, a hidden message. A way to take hold of the dark branch and pull. Ourselves up into that flash in the sky. Once and for all. Stop the fear. Mind let go. We have nothing. Memories and body noise. We have love undisguised and raw like the moist earth. Waiting for the lost leaf to land and become one with it’s meaning. It’s all here for you, to escape, discover, dig, embody even. Skin, like eyes receives messages. I know this. This touch is deep. It’s a long night, filled with soul. My haunted soul who cannot find the words to hurt the pain back. I won’t do it, I’ll find a way out and we’ll be free.

Sharada Devi

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