The Mother Light of pure unconquerable love


The essence of who we are is that sound makes light. The brightness of that light depends on the sounds we make. The power of that light depends on how we move our body. The magnetism of our being is determined by the combination of the two. It’s about action. Karma is action. The truth of who you are, these factors- can’t be faked. It takes determined sadhana and the right conditions that you generate by aware decision making, resulting in an environment and association that will yield your highest potential as quickly as possible. As quickly as possible is important as we do not know how long our lives will be. So this is about efficiency and a natural sort of renunciation from the ridiculous snares of samsaric fears and attachments. It’s just a fact, you get out what you put in. Awareness causes pain- a facing down deep of all that lies buried. Those riches as yet undiscovered will need an alchemical overhaul in order to serve us, fuel our further awakening. Until then, they are the demons we serve in bondage to our imagined karmic prisons rather than empowered by our decisive and determined action. You can theorize that you can have it all, stay stuck, deny it. Pretend you are not looping in the demonic realm of the ancestral knots- but you are. You’re all tied up, in servitude to material suffering and nothing will change that until you apply the fearless power of absolute decision and do what you must to create the conditions that will free you from the dense vibration of your familial pit and lift you into the spiritual lineage that as yet lies buried beneath the lies you serve regarding who you are and what you actually owe the world. Which is nothing. You owe nothing to the culture of death. Be reborn. Destroy the box you call home and be bigger. Fill the space of your divine potential. Dedicate yourself to a profound sadhana. Get into a situation where satsang is possible. Do something now, time is not on your side until Saturn is. I mean Saturn the yogi, not Saturn the devil. Two sides of the same coin and it’s all about you, where you’re at. Kali who is also considered a form of Saturn is not black. That’s your problem. Shiva, the supreme yogi is Saturn. The current president is also Saturn- you figure out that vibrational equation. What you’re doing to yourself by justifying the matrix. It’s not like anyone said it would be easy. It’s painful ripping away the veil, being lighter- more sensitive and subtle. It hurts being pure subjected to televisions and noise- it’s your problem. Where you reside and with who. What you’re doing, the excuses you make. The examples you set. The hypocrisy really. We need to be more ruthless with ourselves, more wrathful with this inertia- settling into old age and awful, heavy conditions. These are the truths that must be faced with awareness, equanimity and the urge to destroy the box we are stuck in. You DO NOT have to stay there. Break out of the program, belief systems, lies you live by only half awake. Bring the vitality back to your body heart and mind. Develop the speech that transforms, by being the truth. Being the sound of light. The Being beyond even God. The essence of dharma is fearless, clear and direct activity. Not bound by blood but by the light of the vows we’ve made since the beginning of time. Remember yourself. Get out of your rut. It’s about forming the community of life. Coming to life. You’re not living until you do. Time is running out. You always have a choice. If you want to be worldly and pretend you’re not, that’s up to you. Like I said, she isn’t black. You are. Sound makes light. Vibration doesn’t lie. Everything we do, say, listen to, think…it creates our sound body in the image of what that frequency generates. It’s a formula that has no loopholes. Your potential is beyond samsaric delusion. Remember your essence and align with it’s requirements. Then, only then will you shine who you are. The Mother Light of pure unconquerable love. Sharada Devi




I haven’t had much to say. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve been alone. I boil herbs, I stare at all my twisting shadows on the wall. Waiting for someone to make their last move. No one does. It’s a game, a conjuring of another dimension. No one wins this way. Sometimes a hole opens and I see, through this reality. Into a world that knows me, differently. With other faces, familiar voices. Memories of the ones I’ve held. Near to me, inside of me. All alone. I have nothing but my laser eyes and this useless wall of shadow- where all my secrets watch me “trying” -twisting into nothing but noise…that’s how this all started. Bhagavan Das went on a two week meditation retreat and when he left he said, “Pretend I’m dead.” He was serious. And so I did. Things didn’t go well at first, then I heard one of his songs…listening as if he were dead-bad idea. Bad, unbearable idea- holding onto this fantasy of fate. He’s going to die. Me too. Who first? Where will I take it? Memory hell perhaps? How will I move beyond this torture of the clinging needy pain seeking shadow, twisting perpetually into me-without any purpose that moves from the suffocating walls that enclose me? Mostly, I am not unaware, thank the god’s that war and sing within me… this is an issue of sentimentality, how to come to terms with attachment. Awareness and equanimity. That’s what he came back saying and I knew. I’ve been saying all week, for more reasons than one. It’s a physical thing. Precision is human perfection, not the other way around. People mostly don’t understand what this transformation is all about. They want to come around, profess all kinds of loves, devote their lives entirely to the cause. The cause of becoming the one who is one. But in no time at all the underlying sabotaging unconscious motivation is revealed that really they just want to either- be me, be BD, have an orgy, be granted power- that’s it. And it’s quite tragic, yet the facts remain. Self sabotage is always present until the presence is present instead. The Being. I ask, could I be that Being? The gods are smaller than your potential. They live, love, war inside the Being. The Being. Human being- being of light. The mother who cares beyond her own body, Mother Light is the Being. Neither male or female, neither religion or philosophy, beyond our choices of who God is, beyond beliefs of their being a choice that fragments that being- whether we call this the great vessel of light- Avalokateshvara, God, Neem Karoli Baba-whoever- it’s all the same essence. We play with the gods inside, circulate their essential elemental proclivities- and churn these forces for and against each other until we reach the peace that surpasses all conflict. Until we become the Being. Human body, being of light.
The true living Mother, beyond man or woman. Guru, God, Creator. The one and only reachable relief from the striving within the realm of choices, mistakes, decisions, alliances- it’s just how it becomes- what it ultimately is, is that we, above and beyond it all. Are this Being. And no name is needed. However, we chant the names given by the embodied who have received the divine code- to encode our sound stream in alignment with the way the energy flows- the energy of sound- the current that begins and ends the war. The sexual equation of enlightenment. Kundalini shakti, the rainbow ribboned serpent, the victorious one rides into true Being, this godhood, the one creative two headed serpent that rides only one wave, the Mother Light wave of sound body, Being God, the one that won the war of all wars, the merging of dusk and dawn. This is the way it is. It’s a physical thing and it absolutely can and will be accomplished. ALL steps, meaning every thought and word; every dim lit action, lead to Her. All phenomena is made of the warring gods, it’s only a matter of clarity and precision- how well we understand the game and why we’re here to ride the snake of man into the rainbow of the serpent Being- We call it the one true God, but it’s the other way. The One true God, bows to the Being who understood the wrath and did something peaceful in a state of violence. It’s called self liberation, very simple once the absolute decision has been made. We continue and we never look back or even sideways, only forward at the flame of the Eye, Her Eye that watches and mimics, Her Eye that is the sight the Being sees through to beyond space and time. This is the Bodhisattva I am describing. It will not happen overnight, over time. It only happens in the gap, and I can tell you why and how. Because She cares, and that’s all you need to know. The matter is what you actually do, what attachments you let Her rip from you, determine the new self you create. You don’t allow the new space, you get nothing. No Being, only the same face of the lesser you. I cannot surrender to the lesser in anybody or any pursuit. I do my best to create this everywhere I look, her most sublime and perfected form. It’s about vision and potential. Individual uniqueness becoming the personality’s specified dharma. And we do this, against all seeming odds. We start that fire. We’re doing it here now, everyday….I will help anybody that helps themselves. I will do anything for you in the name of the great white snake. I will move anything for Her cause by pulling it toward me or pushing it away from me. Magnetism is the power created by the perfection of friction. It goes both ways. Let’s rub ourselves raw in the sound of the name. True essence, our Being. God embodied as sound. Let’s not get confused by echoes or afraid of deep rumbling. To adjust to the discomfort of transformation, to embody awareness and equanimity- just remember my only message written in a million ways- MORE PAIN MORE GAIN. Rub, rub, RUB your duality together. Tapas burns the disease of smallness away until you rest in the cool flames, aware of one. Untouched and humming the Being of Her light into the disappearance of perfect union for the benefit of all sentient beings. As sound we enter and depart. That is the path. The resonance of Being in between.

Sharada Devi


how it feels to be seen


When everything around me starts changing and I can’t hold onto any thing, when there is no direct connection to anything but uncertainty. This undercurrent of a grasping anxiety. To hold something in place, preserve what has been, when I can’t hold on and I can’t let go. I sense the dread and promise of the inevitable. What always comes no matter how well I organize, the chaos of transitions. Mostly for me it’s just a deep grief that’s really ungrounded in any reality but emotionalism and memory. It’s an empty feeling of the long meaningless sequence of events leading to this moment. This felt meaningful. The sadness in his eyes that he couldn’t change anything now, because it is too late. We know and pretend we don’t- out of a sort of unspoken kindness to each other. But it doesn’t mean that the haunting isn’t happening, the inner loss isn’t becoming bigger with every sigh. The fear isn’t growing even larger than the so called love that has held these things together for so long. Held us together. Given a merciful purpose to the days and years that have passed. But nothing, I am left with nothing but a perplexing confusion- that although we know what this is, we still can’t figure it out. What we’re a part of, if we’ve done something wrong, if there was anything we could have done better, more solid. More withstanding the test of transitions. But I couldn’t and I tried. I couldn’t stop the way time reveals the pain no matter how well I hide it, remedy it, define it. I couldn’t take away certain things from others although I tried and would have. I have had to watch the pain set in, the structural changes it causes, the dim realization that these demons we forget don’t forget us. And the harsh fact that, sometimes, at least for now, it IS just too late. And you can get as mad as you want for what I write, you can be ugly and judgmental of me. I didn’t do that to you. You don’t know me. The picture is much bigger than the way you interpret anything I say. Even personal isn’t personal. It is only a finger pointing inside. You know the places we’ve gone. Don’t act like it’s only my mother. I have watched those I have known fade into oblivion because of avoiding inevitable transitions, which is impossible though we try. Of course we try, it’s necessary because we are primal in that way. To survive the coming of destruction, to hold onto any security even if it oppresses us. But the way it goes is that this life is very sad when we’re honest with ourselves and not desperately clinging to new age philosophies or religions that seem to solve the fear of death and loss. Sad because we’ve seen and held the only love we’ve known, no matter how feeble. In another. No matter how they’ve betrayed us or made us feel small. We have had nothing but these little ways to feel a God we can actually only imagine. Which is also scary. Not knowing, no concrete evidence, proof of our immortal souls that will blissfully depart the density of the body and soar into the light beyond all human suffering. I am considering that it’s not that easy. That there is a lot of growing up to do. A lot of personal responsibilities toward that process that we mostly just won’t own. But why, being shrouded in this world of veils that conceal the destination. Wouldn’t you like to know. Why, when, how? This goes. And what can I do. And that’s what I ponder relentlessly. While I listen to time- and I will not smash the clock. Pretend I am beyond it’s threat. I am inside the threat of time, and this is why I fear the timeless where transitions aren’t even possible. There isn’t the gap to distinguish the difference. So this I guess is about the lesson of this human life. The serious dilemma we face. That we actually must be. But only for awhile. That we seek the love we feel within in another but then we must let go. That all will be ripped from us and we are helpless to stop it. That we aren’t paying attention to the warnings that time stands still for no one. That he has been the ancient tree and I am merely a bird on his branches making noise. That I have nothing but feelings moving through me. That- and a mind that tries to control the flow of overwhelming emotion by writing. Defining the moments of time that pierce my soul. That I have always felt I can’t go on in this acute graphic agony of the impending conclusion, and somehow I do. And I have become resourceful, efficient and ruthless. Pulling roots looking for why. And so if you consider the situation of transition and the beliefs that seem to hold both the fear and security intact. You will see it’s all a panic of fabrication with little regard for the actual reality which is -beliefs are like houses. Somebody made them, built them for us to live and sleep in. They aren’t anything but man’s need to solace the fear of intruders and create a container for this warm isolation. Human frailty. The beliefs that circulate our existence as it stands, must be destroyed for us to know where we are in this asylum of noisy thoughts that always come back for more noisy proof. Punishment and retribution for our sins. But why are we guilty. Of what? We seem to be the prisoners of some other beings…

But I can’t believe anything I was trained to think I can only attempt to know the space of right now, as I feel it and move into the moments of my forgotten fears. Transitions and how the body talks inside. If I don’t know me. Nobody will. If I don’t feel me. Nobody can. It’s simple- so simple we dread eye contact. Because the thing inside us, call it a soul or whatever you want. Knows what we hide from. Ourselves- out there. Everywhere- we move away from the way. The way is not definable. It’s too easy. It’s impossible. And so I feel this and can’t understand how to die to dying. And with joy. Is the catch. Crazy simple impossible unattainable. Just to be me? Just to be sad and terrified to let go- and let go anyway. Just to say goodbye without knowing when. Just to be ok with never seeing his face again…just to be the pain of being without trying to stop the torture of the ripping. I feel I would have to be psychotic to be this liberated. That I would have to be a lunatic to be enlightened. So whatever any of it means, I just keep sitting lonely- and feeling what I would rather not face. True love and how it feels to be seen.
Sharada Devi


and then this crow came


I sit in this room all alone looking out. At trees and rain. At emptiness. I would rather not see myself this way. As the winter approaches. As cold sets in. As things get buried even deeper underneath whatever has fallen. When I wasn’t watching. What I lost on the bottom that will soon go unseen. For a long time. It already has. Winters have passed. It never seems the same. Year after year, seasons blend into nothing. Nothing but endless cycles of pain and compensation. Of death and hopeless new beginnings. I sit here alone. People mean nothing to me. I can’t shake the haze of my dying. Which is all this has ever been. A slow, from beginning to end. Watching myself dying. Fruitless and broken. Like the branch that dangles and sways in the wind. Rain on the body of Christ. Whose looking anyway, but the memories of what we hoped we’d uncover. Like the sky hiding God. Or the heart holding love. But none of it matters, it’s all just a cloud relieving itself of dense weather weight. It’s not a poem or even a story. It’s just how things fall, for no reason at all. Back to death because there’s nowhere else to go but there. Nothing to do but remember. Fate. How I got here, sitting with no desire at all to get up. To matter to you. To do anything holy or prosperous. No. I’m just waiting. To fall like everything does, must. Rise. I could play music but why would I bother, continue with the lie, denial. The clock ticks from the wall, overhead and I listen, loud and clear. Every tick another death. Every tock a pointless beginning. The truth of me is that I am not free. I am a product that simply thinks too much and it’s a cruel torture. Whoever made a mistake like me. Whoever put her brain in place. Must know the suffering I could cause by dwelling with infinity as my number. Must have known I’d fuck up every head I could. Could we wake up, could the sun talk. Could we make a stand for any reason at all. Not to be here, useless pitiful space wasters eating money and shitting out tears that stench like dead bodies. The ones we’ve eaten ages ago. And we imagine the sin could be remedied by donating old clothes or opening doors for old people already on their way out. By inculcating our children into this sodomy. By sharpening our teeth while we sleep all the while. Well, I won’t be in this. I just won’t. So goodbye and good luck with your family and career. With your graceful aging and your stifled rage. With your eating disorder and your child you’re turning into your mother. With it all. The man who doesn’t love you. The woman whose so weak she wears makeup. The old forgotten bones of the dead dog. Well I didn’t forget. And I’m not going anywhere but down. Like the sun when it’s over. Whispering everywhere that although tomorrow comes it doesn’t matter at all stupid fucking human people. Wake up. You bore me to death. No one is saved either that’s a fantasy lie. You only rise when you die because that’s what steam does. The rest goes into the dirt, dog bones that mean absolutely nothing. But the seed doesn’t rot. The seed grows more evil and rises again in the steam of the earth’s desire to penetrate. Penetrate. And so he does and she gets knocked up. And the wicked child is born causing trouble. Because nobody is looking at what we did to get here. Why. Why are we fruitlessly fucking each other to death? Why won’t you stop hurting the child by being you?
You. Mother. You. And I mean everything. This planet. Universe. Collapsing fuck point in space.
Everybody, just a bad version of me. Worse. And so why would I bother mentioning flowers or friends or tombstones that read, “rest in peace.”
As if that were possible. The lies are more boundless than God. The beliefs are the devil that keep us all serving the pain of more pain. And of course the useless, endless dying. The trees with no fruit. The rain with no eyes. The earth with no heart. The sun with no warmth. My voice with no sound. Words without meaning. The seed without a worthy womb is my sorrow.
So goodbye as best I can is what I’m doing now…and then this crow came and perched on the broken branch, sideways and just stared at me through the window. There was nothing left to say. Or do.

You. Mother. You. Sharada Devi


bareback and riding a man with black horns


Going nowhere. You look right through me. I hugged him with both legs. Death was breathing. Don’t say goodbye. Don’t do this to me, pretend it isn’t happening. Smile. Eyes that see, speak to me. The silence taking words of gray, into this embrace. Death sucked my heart and the wild blood rose. Inhale, my neck to his teeth. A hungry bite. Fangs. Don’t let go. But you look through me, body like a board. Stiff and smoky. This mad world, you want my stories. I have nothing left to give but a warning. Turn back before it’s too late. Blood dripping onto my cold feet. But it’s him, my alibi. The constant dull hurt of being nobody. Going nowhere. Deep in my body bag calling from the drain of yesterday. It was never warm, not even the summers. Black horned man, shoulders curling like smoke. Rising from your dark invisible head. Let me go, I can’t stay here. I never said goodbye. And my words go unnoticed as I watch out my window. For you coming back, through the howling child wind. The ghosts always want me, touching me in places unseen. For a child, this isn’t safety, it’s danger. Hot sexy danger. No man wants anything old. No woman wants any baby who doesn’t lust for her breasts. I was there, I know what animals are. This is nowhere and God wants in. To me. So I sit alone here, now in the shadows. Tears for an empty world that never gets held. The window, only a memory. My mother dog dead. My virginity numbed. He was the only light I knew, don’t you understand where the wind blows. How low I’ll go looking for an excuse to be real. I can’t think about now, it’s all just about then. Where I’ve gone to avoid this goodbye. I keep thinking I’ve found you, new. Someone else. Do you love me. I know you don’t, look right through. Me. This lonely window. Waiting for him while the ghosts howl through me, inside the loss of me. They say she’s just mysterious. I have filled her or am filled with secrets that cannot be understood. Incest that is more about legacy than rape. Mother dog devours the child dog. Father dog roams for more scent. Blood scent, legacy. Where the demons go feels like somewhere. Howling wolves. It’s this childhood dog that I held, while she licked me to death. While my room sparkles with horny ghosts. While naked thoughts raced through a head much too small. Take back the confusion. My dolls want inside. Another taker, my lonely record plays, “pop goes the weasel.” Because I do know what that means. And these legs bound with chains drag down the hallway. For me, always for me. She’s getting thin. Put something inside her. And so I remember the opal he gave me. Inside of a small golden heart. My mother told me it was filled with fire. So I wore it, he loved me. When he was drunk he said so. And she left me, mounted me. Undressed me with her eyes. Children. Soft scared child. I am unalone. Ghosts fill her eyes, demons go down on her while I watch. Orgasm of sin. The police never came. I was the best and the brightest of the moonflowers. I had honey colored hair and my eyes were big like an unopened sky. Virgin. The wrath of not having enough love to give. So I’ll destroy these voices. Hand held devices. People I never loved. That wanted me like breath. Death breathes while I groan beneath him crying, “make me the one. ” Take me, the one. Child burning in heat. Fever blooded. Every night they come to my window. First the owl, then all the rest. Wanting in. “I’m not a whore!” I screamed into my nightmare. I didn’t know what it meant, I just knew what I was. Suppose to give everyone. A bit of my soul, warmed by an unearthly desire. Bad nasty things in dark places. My parents fucked in front of me so I knew. What it is, what it takes. What I’m not. Pure. Virgin. You threw me away anyway. Left me vomiting on the curb. I wore rainbow socks and had no idea about penis envy. Or what rainbows really mean. Or why the man in the car was stroking the lump or why my mother said, “Go put a shirt on.” Or why I woke up in bed next to the man with black horns. How he knew my name when nobody else did. Why he didn’t look right through me, but from in me. He saw. “I know who you are. Stop hiding.” He said. “In a child’s body or another man’s eyes. Stop pretending I’m not here recording everything you do.” I had an idea, I knew sex was the goal. Definitely knew where the wind blows once he gets his voice in my head. “Little red girl. Everyone is coming this time. Hold still.” And when you’re dead, you’re done with this goddess. And so during this time, even now. I live amongst the dead. Voices that smother me in spirals of smoke. Wrapping their bodies inside and around me, getting fed by what I do. Which is exude. Exude, the blue light where shadows can finally live as rainbows. Stuffed animals can talk, mothers can die and forget I’m their sex slave. Fathers can kill someone else’s little dog and death can have me. Over and over again. Anytime, anywhere. Going nowhere. He looks right through me. Shining vacuous eyes that hold and contain me. I am not here. The wind is an orgasm of fear touching the tip of his erection. And I am ready, I am always ready to stop taking and open the portal to sin. Alive as I am in this diabolical illusion. I am the bringer of the answer to why. Why. Because you want it. That’s why. Because I am a big, hard rainbow. And everyone is hungry for the child who is love. I’m not sure why I tell you these things. It’s because of the window. Where you watch me, undressing the little, soft whore. And where innocence bleeds all over the sheets. Where the song never stops, not even now, “pop goes the weasel.” It scared my brother, the way I gyrated to the music as if I had no fear at all. Of what it would take to get him through that window and into my bed. I may have been little, but I wasn’t small. I am a survivor of fate. And it’s not against women or feminine swooning. It’s just that it’s the best trap of all. This animal box. This divine beauty I describe. The virgin bled for life itself, for the gods to give back what they took. So I trapped them and sucked them all, one by one into me. No one can resist a heavenly child. Bareback and riding a man with black horns. Sharada Devi

On a moonbed of dark things


I sat next to you, I had come a long way just be near you. You shimmered with deep and dark things. Secrets you have never told. There is danger, being near you. Danger of slipping into you. Disappearing like everyone else did. But I came anyway and sat down beside you. You were a quiet rage, holding ages of pain. A pain that felt like ice, an ice much colder than death. And by pain I mean aching. An aching so low and so deep it takes special ears to hear. A porous body to body, the inner skin of the earth. I wanted you. To be you, taken without a trace. Slowly peeled from my own face and lost inside of yours. Your eyes. I could drown. “let go of everything.” you said. “if only I could do that water mirror.” I thought. I thought you heard me. The dream is in my head, the pain fills my heart with a burning cold. Unforeseen. I knew you, I really did. I am a hologram within you who is bigger than even what I can become. Taking over my mind, a rapture of sharp needles inside. I won’t let go, not of you. Whoever you are. I am here, covered in pins, sitting near you. Waiting for more. And I feel the slow movement of you inside this. Blood drops are real. Into you, nothing is seen without sacrifice. Whatever this is, I want it. Nothing else. Where could I go after you? Seeing you. Finally. Arriving. Red moon over midnight. At the place you seem to never leave and that I have barely found. To know you inside. Not sit beside. Get inside. This is my body slipping away into your swarm of dark water. I could be less than nothing if I could be you. I see. Something else. Rising inside me. Another you, another one, another time. Beneath her sorrow. So the churning of two invisible eyes. And the searching, “what are you searching for, in me?” You silently said. “myself, my ugly things I won’t see. You make them prettier. Deadlier. More permanent than even myself.” “I am. Is all.” The most divine. Who spoke from out of a pool of black. My voice, your throat. I am bottomless, not even death reaches me as far as I go. Down. So far down, we feel what we find, never having the words to say for sure who we are. The noises, how far back do they go? Underwater echoes, haunting whale cries. For each other and we can never find. Each other. Down here. “Do you know where you are?” You asked me. “I’m with you.” I said. “Me?” You whispered and as I watched whatever it is that you are, I grew cold on the outside and hot on the inside. “I can’t wait anymore.” “Wait for what?” “To get in you.” Then you started laughing in ripples and I felt the moon begin to die. Growing black again. Into him disappearing. Into the water. How do I know? I was there, feeling you. Moving. Underneath the crescent horns of cruel love. Then you laid down floating as I sunk into someone. Is it you, a you I could know? I get a very creepy feeling you aren’t anybody. And I want you like I want a ghost to possess me and do demonic things so I can feel vivid and full. Again, not taking over, taken over. And it won’t be my fault, because I love you. And you’re anybody I want, a fantasy. A deep dark god or goddess. A prisoner. My master. A teardrop. A bloody knife. A filthy hole. A God eye. I will be the one. Who goes with you, not even as me. As us, disturbed by the brightness of daylight. Into the pools brought by night, after she dies and admits to herself where she’s gone. Looking for love, is it called even love. Looking for bodies that match her version, my vision of what might be at the bottom of this, if only we could get there, lay there. On a moonbed of dark things, with each other, inside no other. Forget me, own me, consume me. Blow me up. Never know me, down here. I am just a feeling without a face or anything. Inside your head, draining your heart. If we had these things, if the dead didn’t know. Bodies themselves make good excuses to die. And so we went a long way. All the way to the moon. If we could we would. That’s why I call it love even though it feels evil and I know I’m demented to say it’s the truth. That is the place she sits waiting to go wherever he wants if he lets her destroy him first. Because it’s what this is. A love like God. A perversion that isn’t even a word. A religion that can’t be made, only entered at your own risk. Of annihilation. Consummation of a secret too forbidden to see with human eyes. Too bright to see without first being killed. Killed by the one who waits inside. Destroyer of colors. And I can’t even breath until then. Where is the light, was it ever? Won’t you say why you’ve done this. Made me wait so long…in this place where nobody goes. Nobody can. But me. Dark lover, pool of black. Anybody can know God. I want God’s silver soul.  And I’ll be here. As the drowning dark water for him. And I mean God. That’s how I feel it, undercurrent for you. The Eye. Down there. Void of me. A gasp into God. Sharada Devi


another rainbow is born



I see rainbows inside myself. I realize I am filled with sky, just like you. The heart light that shines on these tears, is where the rainbows are born. I have a lot. Of rainbows inside grown from tears. The tears we surrender to in love, the bright sunlit heart. God is the sun, behind the moon shining. The heart is the moon, not alone. She melts into the sun, this is hope.


The inspiration of a million lights, circulating the seven colors of the all that is. Letters and numbers. Points on the grid. The human body made of tears. We don’t know? Made of tears. Made from tears. Yes we are, haven’t you heard the great song in your head. “I won’t forget you. I won’t forget you.” But yes you did and you’re already here. Trying again, a new angle. Climbing to higher, dryer ground. It won’t work. The truth is in tears. Real human light comes from that. The sun shines into her, the moon and we know. And the rain of our heart starts to fall into the sky of our being and we let go. We let go. I let go, into the limitless sorrow of my loneliness and I let go into the fear of being nothing at all. And this storm is loud inside and dark inside. As the rain keeps falling, I control nothing.


The rain is the prayer that grows the rainbows of this. This promise that all will be resurrected in his light, her love. Both of us. Shining. When the sun moves she follows and nobody needs to know I’m here. My love is spiraling every color, every pain moved into joy. Every dark cloud, alive. Bright in me. The heart is the abode of the rainbows. They live there and they mean something big. The human body, human aura, human heart and mind space are nothing but the sounds of space that we give to the rain. Open sky.


Melting darkness into radiant being-ness. I don’t know anything. I follow the grace of my tears. We have only one way. The way of genuine touch. We touch ourselves inside by feeling where she, the moon. We call her Sita. Might be hiding. Afraid, alone. Abducted by fear. We find her. We cleanse her. We save our souls with the light of the sun. How we get there, deep within. Breathing into the space of her loneliness, touching her softly and listening closely to the sound of her beating heart calling to him. Ram, Ram. I am Hanuman. Because I need to be. I am the rainbow body that comes from the rapture of her return.


To him, him inside her. The union I surrender to, give my life to, the battle of angles and noises. I hear her. I listen for her tears, crying his name inside. Ram Ram. I hear her. For her I go into the dark place, sobbing. For her I can lift this dark world. For her I can bring the spring time and the dawn. For her Ram can aim and shoot to kill darkness. For Ram I can bring my soul to the light. I can be the breath of white flame. I can follow her rainbow.


What the world can see is the freedom of true love. My prayer is Ram. Not a religion. A meaning deeper than sound rules. A meaning deeper than God thoughts. A feeling as bright as the sun. This feeling of the rainbow once it appears, inside after the song. The love song of life. Do this for me. Find her. Find her in the radiance of her tears, yearning for his return. I must save my soul. She is Sita. I am Hanuman. Ram is the light that creates the rainbow because he killed anything and everything in the way of what I bring him. I brought him clues of darkness and evidence of pain. I brought him anything that concealed her. Anyone that brought her pain. I brought him the wind to move the black cloud. I brought him vision and he saw. Where to aim the arrow that ended the night.


Rising sun. My moon flower. Only the lonely can hear me cry out to you. Only those blinded by love know the rainbow of his caress over her golden face. I will be here when you need me, I will bring you the light as God brings the sorrow to know. Know deeply the hidden sound of the heart. Tears are rain. Rain brings flowers. Light brings love. The flower opens herself to him. Because of me, another rainbow is born.
Sharada Devi

the dark entrance


i went somewhere last night. automatically. deep into the night. where the shadows pray. it’s a start. they were there, so many of them and of course they knew me, recognized me when i entered this astral doorway. she, a formless black colored woman was there also, at the entrance and she showed me a red snake rise from coiled blood and slither down her arm, the blade went deep. she looked at me and said, “do you know what an S is?” and i just stared at the snake dripping and sliding and she said, “you’re very beautiful.” and i looked out and all the shadows were bowing, at us. she was their face. she was their everything and knew each one by name. inside these shadow forms a red line was moving some in circles, some more like spirals. some how you’d imagine a lightening bolt looks, jagged and bright. they had no idea, they were mindless shadows. the inner mind, of her. who moves. like i always said, blood drinker. this is it. and the shadows bowed with bodies dark and icy. icy, i knew because the room was cold and they had white mist rising from their bodies like when you exhale and the breath begins to freeze. they were that, inner cold dark. who we don’t really know, but yet, yes i did. names, faces, love lost and given. i knew and the bowing turned into song. long deep shadow groaning. they had eyes, i lifted every head. eyes shattered and hopeless. they had dreams, i lifted their bodies and underneath were crushed flowers never given to god. it’s who she is to them and somehow they are still afraid to approach her. so she stays on her side and they stay on theirs apparently. she lying on a tilting throne and them face down on her floor. floor made of nothing but tears turned to ice, as the surface cannot melt, we are cold here. frozen and singing songs to her that barely move. it’s scary and she is still smiling staring at me, saying, “lay down. here. lay on the throne, it won’t hurt.” “but i cannot stay,” i said, “i don’t belong here.” she only laughed inside a cloud made of white madness. she drew in the air and a new face was formed. next to the two of us, a beautiful goddess appeared holding a shaft of light, made of ice. “cut her open.” she told this goddess who agreed. and i stood, barely knowing myself anywhere i saw. the shaft came down and through me. like lightening through the top of my skull, the shadow world lit, the ice through me, “inside i am a fire.” i said, now in two. they both laughed as blood froze faster than it flowed. i began to slow down and the shadow song began to make sense. “do you know anything about the S?” she asked as the goddess began to lick her feet moving slowly up her legs. the goddess had a tongue that was split like a pitchfork. her tongue was a flame. and the ice of her black body began melting and i became very attracted to the shadows, everywhere, in me. and the goddess kept licking the flame getting bigger and brighter and she moved up her legs slowly but surely. the shadows kept groaning louder and louder. i was groaning. the room became silvery and the goddess began to wind her tongue through the black body like a cork screw. into the vortex of her as they touched. tongue, more tongue, pitchfork tongue made of fire. dark black ice secret shadow made of a cold who screams desire. into these shadows who want her. for any reason. a blood and lust, beyond what i think. so she laid down, for them, in the water that dripped from her body, two bodies. a goddess that gives, and a goddess that takes. shadows wanting what shadows want. entry, penetration. slow grinding light. “why am i here?” i began asking, over and over again and nobody heard. until i was groaning like a volcanic whale, until i was a disappearance of myself into the madness of her throbbing, uncoiled laughter. is it the cloud, the dark cloud. is he coming through the clouds made of me? is she a goddess, does she want me? did he send them here to fill me with himself? made of her, who kept calling me, deep in my sleep, “come, come down here, let go of yourself, come feel me.” but i couldn’t. i could only watch and want what i couldn’t be, the tongue. the penetration, the light inside my shadow. i do, after all know what this is. and now the goddess has taken her, black cold body and there is nothing but water and her hot tongue moving upward, a red serpent into the empty space. of me. between shadows erected, now in line to mount the only one left. one by one we must do this. and i lay, waiting for a deeper god in each and every dark and painful entry. into me. the nothing that got me here. the electric pulse of the wanting, the throb of the shadow gods. he has no name. he is in me. there is only him. who does this every time. and i went there, and i pretend i don’t know why, last night. cold and alone. and i did something different. i was still innocent. even blackened, even fucked. i welcomed the deep, dark into me. i trusted his black body over mine. over and over until the light rose over us and my dark face shimmered like a woman who has met and become the god she destroyed. they can all love me. i take everything, i give nothing back. like this story…i made him, do it. bow to me, the dark entrance. sharada devi

womb swamp


only in the lonely breath. the sound of me, you never left. i inhale desperately. nobody comes, i collapse into exhale and it all seems the same. even before i was born and the snake became the snake. even after i left to come here and she waited, legs spread open in agony. i knew they all cared, i knew they all needed. me to believe once again in the house and the trees and the way all mother’s smile when they really believe you’re theirs. but i wasn’t, not like that. but i wasn’t not in any stretch of the word, this world. anybody’s. nobody’s at all. and so the snake uncoiled and i began twisting and sucking because of course that’s what’s expected until the pretending is perfected. and our eyes didn’t match. but i knew it and they didn’t. but their’s a hole in your head that shouldn’t be here, now. now that your mine. umbilical cord left unchewed. I cut you myself out of this mold. and so the coil seemed to spin from my stomach, the central hole of the sun straight back into a heaven so dark i forgot very quickly. slowly remembering nothing but her rules. how i become you like a rock under water. how nobody cares how long it’s been since i’ve taken any breathe resembling anything even slightly alive. that i’ve been spit out of the dark hole only to fall, sinking deeper into another ethereal swamp made of her hair strands, her breasts, the smell of her mouth. no, i did not stay opened. i closed just like everybody. i laid like a slimy corpse at the bottom of her need and i sucked like she taught me and i gradually became everything she left in herself undiscovered. like his love, his brave beatings, his gunshots, his hatred, his other gifts to this world. this fire above us, where the sun aims from grows colder as days become days to me finally and hours become something i count, forgetting entirely that my heart actually beats and i’m actually only a shot in the dark. a bullet meant to kill almost anything. anything breathing on it’s own i mean. without me controlling this world and his demons. she could get hurt. it’s her i came to protect, pretend, mimic, secretly annihilate, pledge allegiance to, get inside, seduce, destroy. put her face under mine. behind me. in this invisible water. “get down below me satan and give me what i want.” that’s what i said once the hormones kicked in. “give me her, deep inside, the need. the lust for murder, the child who can’t go home. give me dominion over life and death. give me seeds and men who cannot stop thrusting, give me the light of the sun, give me worlds buried in my water. down below get back inside little one. this is me remember the game?” however, he wasn’t really who he claimed to be, in the end. you know this don’t you? i was actually the redeemer wrapped in her blanket of blood. i was growing, taking over her body, inside. eating everything. her life became mine. it’s the journey isn’t it. that’s how i describe myself in every book and yet, still. nobody reads a word upside down. where i hang all my secrets, tips of broken letters, like a T for example. or an M. the S is for the way it really is though. turned on it’s side. until the game is seen as the insight. until the flip is so real, nobody gets out but up and through. shot from the mouth in my head into the sun where he belongs. not all alone with the petrified moon. oh no, because truly she’s always afraid of the dark. that’s why she gets underneath him and begs for children. his bright children, so she can eat them and shine with their light. she hasn’t anything of her own, but anyone she takes becomes the pain that grows from movement. it’s this water inside the canal, the womb swamp filled with our vitamins abc. it’s the food in our head we can’t eat but keep vomiting. it’s the pain in her first eyes, i saw them even before my first breath. i saw her looking at me with pain and hunger. “will you love me?” she asked. birth, the moment of truth. “will you feed me?” she asked in a voice without words. but i knew who she was. and i was the one, still breathless and covered in her ownership blood. and the needing began. it is me. i am the heart breaker. born in images of sin and fascination. existing solely to destroy the demon whose sperm created my very own baby hole. i am here looking for him. getting her out of my way. deeply wanting this new strand of mother to be known. underneath the letters i write, spelling words. she hides and i know this. i am a hunter, a ruthless mouth of light. he brings me everything as gifts, like a devoted cat. it is the feline and the serpent that i know as my parents. that god or satan didn’t do much. that it’s all my little sin, that my first word was not mother. that it’s a secret. and i do this because i’m lonely and everyone wants to know. the secret. the password. the love in her useless eyes. i want him to know, there is no one but me. black songless widow. filled with pets and jewels of the deep. this family living inside this house surrounded in trees. where she is born, gives birth and dies. “his name, what is his name, does anybody remember at all?” and the question is, how i got here. a stainless and perfected sinner, spreading trouble and diseases filled with enlightened killers. my children, my bloodless people of the dim. between heaven and earth. between moons and the sun. i wait for no one. i see everyone, like a word never spoken. or a heart never broken. and so what i’m saying is i need you to find me, in the darkest of my secrets. so dark i won’t even say it out loud. inside me. he waits for the dawn as if the light could hide his love. do you understand this deity,
this love so intense my breathe leaves me and moves into you. at last…?

sharada devi