breathe me


Because the painful fingers of losing time are too much, to touch you. A warm body of light covers me. Delicate skin, I’m losing control. I’m afraid to touch you. He’s in every window. Dying eyes down the window, rain. Summer’s gone. And I can’t hold a thing, not this body. You on the bed rolling over. Another life, another girl. Tongues, dark alleys where I remember. I’ve done things, shameful burning things that take me, take me away. To the one waiting with another lonely girl. A body, a sleek fast body. Did I tell you I’m afraid of the light through my window. In the night, when it’s dark and he watches. It’s him, light bearing body reminding. Open me. I’m coming home. And I didn’t forget a thing. Your skin, your face, your voice. The smell of roses. Candles, flickering shadows that fear nothing. Hands, the hands that could never touch me. Deeply enough to be had. There is a way out. Through my fingers she drains, body of rain. Candles that die and simply disappear. This time I will not forget you. This time I will not turn my eyes. This time no other woman will exist. This time the bones won’t betray me. This time even love won’t get away from the morning. Temple of what I want, this time she won’t leave. But he goes. Anyway. Without leaving. Just slowly fading as I fade, into earth, wrinkled roses. Petals falling. Pink lady. Everyone disappears. Flame I pray, picture of a dead man. I turn to God like a storm creating a song, through the trees and soft spoken nature alleys. Every pain has a gate, a threshold. You are mine. I call it rain because crying is not really it. It’s more like releasing what I can’t let go. I call it other things besides fear and loss and the beauty of young animals not knowing they’ll die so they run really fast as the bird flies towards the east, chasing sunrise and breakfast. Always happy I’m still alive. We both pretend we’ll never leave. Like a rainbow is touchable, like my skin is eternal. Like she wears flowers in her hair, like a candle could be moonlight. Like you don’t see the innocence draining through time. Touch the ecstasy one more time, she is in you. My destiny love, as blue as forever. Another life will call and you’ll leave without even trying. And I’ll be just a memory, like the movie that meant something deeper or like opening a front door without checking who knocked. I’ll be there but you won’t know or remember who her love was, you’ll only smell her hair and think of falling rain. You’ll see her young face and think of soft babies. You’ll smile when she smiles because she’ll be here, again with you inside your soul. He’s reaching through the window, we don’t notice or care until after she leaves. Another night, candles dying. Roses hung like dead bodies, animals lying dead on the floor. The fire has given up, the wood is all gone. The phone has stopped ringing. The corners are blurred. The chimes have stopped, her breath doesn’t move. I inhale deeply hoping to find you. Inside where I promised I would never forget. And it hurts so much to see you and I don’t know why. Because I’m old, not old but ancient. Too ancient to care that I’ll be dead another time while you see me, crawling toward the window where this man lives. Outside, inside the earth that has become mud and river. She turns the wind and clouds into bodies that sing open as birds in the morning. Sun through the trees. His fingers through her newborn hair. The smell of wood as it surrenders to flames. What else can we do but love as death loves, the one it releases, takes every breath from. Gives itself to finding light in the shadows. Under warm dreamy bodies as they desperately grope. Give me God, won’t you give me God. Get in me, find God. Let me go, find me in God. Be God. Reach God. Be my window. Break the window. Find my soul. Let me go. Are you God. Get in God. Get out it’s God. Give me God, can you find me? Be me. All over me. See me. Kill me. Release me. Light me. Love me. Consume me. Create me. Cast your shadow over me, rise in me. Another face could never be mine. If you look away ever, I’m gone.
Gone in the sharp pain, deep in the sharp pain. Your eyes in my rain pain. I’ll never look back pain. She is what the storm brings. He’s looking for new beginnings. She’s determined to end things. Young bodies die like dream things. And I love like love is my fate. And I love like God could be anything. You, seeds of buried poetry, in me, opening the window where he breathes and his tears fall because he’s old and he loves me and he’s young and he’ll leave me and I’m lost like every butterfly that leaves it’s body hanging just to float and flutter, just to flicker and die in a place that nobody ever sees or will ever find. I have never seen a dead butterfly but I’ve been one. I’ve been a rainbow hanging upside down in the rain while he kissed my dead body praying to God I’d come back. The morning never came again. The moon never held another candle. Your body never touched mine. The rose had no perfume. My soul turned gray and love was just this doorway, this threshold to now. Where I find you looking at me, forgetting all that this happened. Smiling, reaching for my hand. I see what God, if I could be God, sees in you. This, myself anguish as a goddess, holding on to the ecstasy of another night in heaven. One more night on earth. A bridge into eternity where we never part. Where gaps don’t exist, where I am safe and I am nothing because I cannot die, only disappear out the window and into your blue heart. And it’s a dream, breathe me. I’m a dream as real as any God could be, rolling over between the sun and moon, inside red sheets. Worshipping the end of time, where only God is real.

Breathe me. Sharada Devi


wet bunny death wings


Nettle infusion, I make it for the minerals. Milarepa lived on nettles boiled in water, same thing. Plus I heard he sucked rocks during times of extreme hardship. We have dreams in these dark caves we submit to, to open our eyes through the darkness. The eyes that are covered in earth skin, the skin must be broken for his light to get it. And so in this delirious state, having only drank green water for days. I was on the mountains peak, went to face death, condemn the sin, not the sinner. I was alone. But it seemed the whole world and all it’s demons thought I was having a party, a family reunion and a seance all at one. Milarepa was covering me with his corpse, void of flesh though, like I was inside a body of bones made of him, I saw through my dreams and hallucinations and yet I participated because I am passionate and need something to offer my guests, like a philosophy, an insight, a poem. So a girl carrying wings walks by. Then we look down and see a dead bunny lying in a bed of flowers, red flowers. The girl had put wings on his body so it appeared the bunny was winged. My shadow who walked beside me said, “it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” these wings were around, strewn on the ground as we kept walking. Even though I was high in the cave covered in his bones, this all seemed real, plus my guests were all watching, waiting for me to react. God, a buddhas a buddha, relax, no ones going anywhere but here, in my head shaped dome of creation….anyway, she drops them for him- these wet wings, they were wet now, kind of all stuck together in a mass like my sadness for nothing, wet bunny death wings is what he saw and I knew, so he can scrape up earth’s shit and eat it. Milarepa, had this fear of flying due to what he might see below but he did it anyway…just jumped off the cliff like a vulture seeking the dead, his bones left and nothing. He drank only green water made of nettle, no blood left. You know that. And so he did it, he showed this world, how bunny death stalks from above- only the sun casts the shadow we see. I talk of death because it’s my theme, not because I can think of nothing else- oh wait yes actually it is because I can think of nothing else. Everything wraps itself around this reason. Milarepa went back to the past like we all do, and gathered the bones of his birth into body. His body, his mother, he killed for mother. He died for her too. We all do. That’s the dream for the past several decades in my book. So this guy came, from out of nowhere as they all do in dreams, it doesn’t matter if you’re held up in a cave -and he held me up, lifted me up effortlessly with the palms of his hands -way above his head, he was seriously dangerous. Effortlessly serene. No one can lift me, but he did, and it’s not because I’m fat, but because I’m seriously heavy. Filled with lead and snake venom pooling for millennia. Then he said “120 pounds,” he was a scale. The scales is libra, I have pluto in libra. Venus rules libra, venus is god. In case you didn’t know flying star. Then, demons started crackling like a blazing fire with laughter, “what’s next, what’s next!!!” They psychically probed me. Ok, there were dressed up police drinking vodka and hippies with bad serpent hair. So of course, I had to be singing as always. Sing the devil away, sing god back. “Ha, ha, ha!!!!” They were all hysterical with laughter at this point, the demons, the dead family, the disembodied saints and the lesser gods. I went on dreaming away, it was getting cold, I could be at death’s door, the mouth of the cave has been closed awhile now. The floor was red where I sat singing to them all, there were swirly things floating and dancing to my voice, like living feathers without even a bird or a bunny attached. This was all before we left, to get away from that man who weighs everyone and that’s when the bunny scenario came to life. Basically the party wasn’t over and I’m jumping back and forth in time, being fondled by ghouls in the dark cave, I don’t move or flinch. I just rattle bones silently into their vision. “Let me finish,” I think through the film being played….so my brother was pushing open the back of an old empty rusty bus, on the curb, next to where the bunny feathers were strewn- all because my sister I suddenly had, who was a bad hippy with the worst hair of all, said the bus was haunted with death’s scent. She was right, I have a nose like a dog. There is a bus, the school bus that children get taken in. It’s part of the possession. The entry into bunny-hood I suppose. I’m back because I feel unloved, not because I think you need me. People were dancing before I left my bone palace of Milarepa, because I knew we had to sing for Venus- that the star was waiting somewhere to devour the night even though we couldn’t see her. Not devour because the night was evil but devour because she consumes darkness in order for the light to be created. This is, in fact the story of the black hole. Why, how and how long. I just told you- probably forever. Bodies remember each other even before minds do and I saw the bunny and I knew nobody remembers but my body did. It was clawing from the inside to lay over the bunny, stroke it’s wet wings and kiss it’s bloated body. Back to before when the days were long and she always came early without being called. Venus, we sing to you. Deliver us from evil. Parasites is what I’m
finding out evil is, how they take over and colonize the body from within. Deliver us from martyrdom, From death to immortality. From darkness to eternal light. Milarepa flew with wings nobody could see. She was the reason he feared and the reason he flew. It’s that hawk that casts shadows that Bhagavan Das told us about, that sound of dark wings- but no eyes to see, only the thump of within, rabbit wisdom, the way the Native American Indians would tell time was by shadows that rocks made, it’s death. They were talking to death. Mother is the killer, not him, he has no choice. We pay though don’t we, through every terrified hole- we throw money at time and say, “please close your wings and go home.” I am home. In a cave, far away, long ago, in his body of bones dreaming of a ridiculously materialistic me. It’s not even worth the effort to speak but I do. They came from afar, so it’s done. “Bunny baby, everyone can fly.” I told that to every demon and dead whatever as I kissed forehead after forehead in the darkness of time. The sound of wings moving wind filled the airless cave and everyone was enchanted by Venus who was outside promising us all, drawing rings around our body, killing us all softly with her breath and her light. But it won’t happen again. This if definitely the contradiction of a lifetime we’re now entering. I need space, autonomy. Unbroken love I don’t work for, prove myself for, immaculately delivered. No, I need to be seen before I am known, just for existing not for promising anything like the dawn or the food that gives eternal life. And this man knew my weight because he measures heaviness which is gravity. He is the balancer of karma, she tips the scales makes you do things like kill entire villages for your mother or learn to fly so you can see her body in the darkness of the hidden sun. Where the incantations go to mend broken hearts and bones, to raise the dead. To clear the records of your every earthly name. The bunny already has wings, we just put them back where they belong. Did you ever see watership down? It’s a mythic bunny movie, very important movie about Milarepa as a bunny, what he would do, what it means. Do you even know who Milarepa is? If the sky and everything suddenly turned black I wouldn’t even worry about it. I’m dealing with fear and the honesty of loveless conditions 24 hours a day. It’s the process my dog, my friend and all of us go through. My shadow laughs even now at my innocence. Sharada Devi

I’ve been taken, abducted and loved truly to death


I jumped into the ashes on top of the fire knowing I couldn’t live without her. Earth, pile of twigs. Burn on the cross, drawn on the ground. Little secret. Big bone body, gone into you. No more telling. Fire of colors, raging storm flames, rain dies to end me and no one came. A soft pretty voice, gentle and gone. This is it. Family. Eternity. Home bright and disguised under death’s body. A little house, open door. I jumped and she fell. Through me. Astral, her unspoken name. Morning, a harlot never came. But I did. No more trying, this is it. Mounds of wood, wet and crying. Broken trees, bones giant and sturdy. Weeping girl, death makes all the sense in the world. At this point. Open groin. I wanted to know you, unlock every door. Secret. Now you’re burning and I’m inside, white destroyer. Ash body. Foaming mouth. Rabid incestuous species recreating sores from an open wound. Hot and reproducing the offspring of inevitable separation from self. Blood dried, open line. They wanted all of me, she took me. Unbroken. I jumped on, into the heat of her body. Bearing ash as my witness and knowing jesus never came. Not like God did on that morning. She smiled under sunlight, no skin, no makeup, no portal to forever. Just underneath me squirming like a fish. Under water flash. Sunlight shining, upward. Drowning. It’s the rock they never moved. In front of the entrance he rises. 3 days don’t last forever, no one is afraid. She’s in mourning. Beloved earth flower. Scorched. Heavy thorn. My agony. God fire. Clouds cover her in foam, water hides her best features. Just a body of stagnant water. Just an earth bearing bone. Just another mother crying for her son at death’s door. God, my burden is you. A prayer in her halo never stops calling for the one who left, left her hanging underneath me. A little girl, dying in the summer for her daddy. Wanting jesus, whoever her name is, however he makes peace. With or without soft dove feathers. Beloved, angel. He lies curled under a yellow cloth dreaming of her, petal by petal, unopened and lonely. Pictures of other girls on the wall, ripened and rotting. I don’t know what to say but thank you and sorry. I dove from the sky like a meteor. She was lost, he was over. Inside every heart is my sin, sun burning secret. That this isn’t it. She didn’t destroy, the child didn’t give up, God did. There was no savior at home. Wet inside, hard sacred body. A virgin of bliss, a messiah getting beaten. A line drawn on a map. A star, a cross where we fall. Lay down here. Die waiting. Burn seeking. Hail the sunlight through the mirror, water body. Rising crescent, tears between her unopened legs. Jesus was not born, he was unearthed. Excavated from beyond the grave of women. I love no one but my memory of that night. Between them both, mother and father of the secret womb. All for me, fire starter. Alone, men dying. Women seething. A world, a planet left in nobody’s ancient arms. Not even a light watching from the sky. The distant cloud, I wanted her and only because she always disappeared in the smoke. Smoky and away, far away from this god forsaken world. Religion, crisis. A golden sheet over my body. I came to meet death and he took me. The way a dream takes life. With his big eyes. Open bright and smiling without saying a thing. Not even goodbye this is over. Nothing, a waive of his hand over my fear. There is no wood in this fire. He was smoke, like the white cloud. He was rain, like her sadness, down her cheek, missing something silent and eternal. He was waterfalls and arms that break the hurt. He was empty of God like names and faces are empty of me. He was above me. A white sheet in the summer blowing gently, drying all the stains of wetness away. He was not something I can talk about like it could be real, it was unreal. All of her unbearable beauty. My meeting with death, deliverance, matrimony, no moment left. Was a torture so complete it tore open existence herself and consumed her innocence and took her withered life back up to the unseen stars. In secret, the book of flowers never touched. Down there where her omniscience is hidden. Virgin moon, underneath you death is revealed and all the worlds on the way open up through her. Death is a purity that nobody understands until he’s already destroyed your mind. Where the bodies are born that bewitch him. Until he takes you as his bride. Virgin bride with nothing but fire. Cold and blue. It’s a headache that doesn’t just go away on it’s own, not without her. A poison that kills pain. And all her beauty is because she’s a widow. Do you understand the red diamond, the broken hourglass? Red hourglass, still black body. Taking his face as her own. Pulling into herself every remnant of sound and breath and sexuality unbridled. This is the end, the end of secrets upside down- now and anymore. How you see her is what she becomes.


Then tonight, in the darkness as I lay here, an owl appeared above me. She was white and as perfect as danger. She looked like a Native American Shaman Owl bringing me an omen. I said, “I don’t want to know,” and then I changed my mind because she was wise. Hovering, growing pale, an evaporating cloud. She just stared at me until she disappeared and I saw myself in her remains which were emptiness. I knew I couldn’t be still in this chaos anymore. The red lines have been drawn on me and it is the end of my world. The widow could be everything if we let her. She could be the door. He told me that doors are everywhere and I believe him. Some would consider him God while others would see him as crazy. I see that the sun will be rising soon. I see that the owl’s face is mine. I see that the fire is underneath every vision. Of why the truth rises and falls like the days do. Life rages out of control lusting for death because only he can stop her. Find her, put her back in the ground. But of course then she strikes back from everywhere…as flowers or weeds or fog over bodies that bloom. I am in every cloud and the lightening is me…

I’ve been taken, abducted and loved truly to death.  Sharada Devi


occult means hidden


I’ve seen the destruction of soft and pretty things, I’ve heard the cries of “don’t let go.” When I saw her face projected on the NYC high rise I knew we had started something too big to finish without more destruction, more definite than any that had come before. “Just let him go. If he can’t fly, he can’t fly” I thought to myself. Mother birds have just as hard a time letting go as any. “Sweet tender baby your can’t survive me, everyone eats worms here, gives head, falls to their death from some sort of burning building. I can’t regurgitate down your throat forever.” Everyone ran, fled the streets as he fell, because of me. My baby to the world below. Did you know if you can love one thing, you can love anything? That goes with letting go as well. Her beauty has a purpose all it’s own, to put an end to cities filled with tongue and bone. To destroy the soft pretty things before the suffering becomes too great, to feed the weak back to themselves. To create madness from the billboards that rise like a god in your pants when she walks in the room. And it isn’t anything for her who did this. Boy in a tree, nested and needing. Everything she promises. I was born, he was born, the egg is always hatching new bate. Warm bodies cover the truth all the time. Incubating the evil within. The one who takes over draws her black face on walls and prays to Satan like it’s funny. Open your wings devil sucking widow maker, he’s begging for more of the same. I write this laughing with tears in my eyes, heavy with remembering the day I let go. You don’t have remembering there. Watch me destroy the last progeny. It will be late in the summer as the song is dying far out in the field. You thought she’d leave the cities but she doesn’t. She stays, her face everywhere knowing he’s about to fall and his mother could give a fuck. Food isn’t cheap, worms little bloodless things that squirm. I’ve taken it in both ends just for you, baby diseases. And no, I don’t wear horns, that would be redundant, I wear a mask facing west towards the setting sun. You’ll only see the back of my head, you’ll only hear distant laughter. I told you it would go down, it always goes eventually. He’d fall, I’d make him a man somehow. Every tree is my tree. Every boy is my socket. Every eye is my outlet. Every song is my trance. Every worm is my screw back into your head. Dangles the feast from my throat, hangs the dead bleeding my life, bloats the bodies back to the surface. What do I care, the whole world is a swamp. My lover is me. And they dug and they dug for evidence but no one could stop me, obviously. I drain what I leave back to the beginning. Like freshly made soil where they inject blood and ground up bone and eggshell just to grow a flower. Beauty isn’t pretty, what makes me so divine is that I’ll go there and I’ll pillage every last hole in the wall until the whole world wants no one but me. Your world, the king’s world, the joker’s world. The suit of hearts. She walks across the stage as if no one were watching but she knows, she knows how to play to an audience that’s hungry. How to drop hints, blow budgets, see every card in your hand. Mother fucking flower child, thinking birds sing to be pretty, loving sunsets and blue open skies over dark sinister oceans. The ocean is the face of the underworld. The sunset means that man has lost his soul, birds are crying out to the gods to lift them out of here, flowers die because there is no other way out of her creation. I want every baby to make the leap. The leap from my arms straight into the sky. Fall hard from the nest. The earth is rock hard below. Nothing and nobody is waiting to scrape and eat your remains but me, mixed in vultures and drones. Who else do you think you’ll become once we merge and time stops etc etc. nothing but laughter and the back of my head tilting mouth open eating drinking, sunlight and human tears. Everyone loves the child, I know that. And he died for his father…it goes on and on. There is nobody but me and my desire to be loved by the projections I cast on the walls. I teach snakes how to walk talk and bury their faces in me, that’s all. Birds come because we all need to believe in transcendent things, heavenly beautiful young girl bodies, soft pretty and perfect. I see their faces everywhere smiling with hope that you’ll love them based on such beauty but you don’t and you won’t. The critical mass of the delusion is hopelessly bred into the species to recreate based on simple equations, like attraction and interactive bloodlines. These factors determine how intelligence laces it’s DNA and how you might go on…with your sperms and your eggs, your worms coming and going in and out of every God forsaken pleasure hole. Oh how I love you for trying, all your dreams of the future and how angels come back all reformed. My baby, falling feathered twice born. I said the secret password and you just grinned like a stupid dog. I want everything that moves and breathes and resembles light. There is no easy answer. Take off your clothes, peel the skin. Come out come out wherever you are. Lustful princess, there is only me and my desire for me. You thought there was you, inside the music. All over the wall, dancing like you’re stupid. You thought you spoke to me, knew something about me, brought me a menu called you- like I’m hungry for a stale ghost. It’s much too late to stick out your tongue baby bird. It’s much too late to go back home where the shell is. It’s much too late to suffer like the ordinary getting laid. No, this is extraordinary punishment for a job well done. That’s how I go down, down below and pull up all the files, deleting the days, reforming the nights. You won’t remember anything but a dark enchantment, a fuzzy bliss. “Turn around and face your fate.” She stands and she isn’t a mystery. Not anymore. Not now that you’ve taken the bait and bit her kind hand. She is soft and pretty and lethal like a tasteless poison you mix into wine. Warm and intoxicating, divine feels it all, deep in the bone and black winter heart of the chosen one. Sometimes I think I’ve snapped and gone crazy. Time has lapses, space has holes I can walk in and out of. You know this is all fake don’t you? Just her showing off and letting you squirm. Because you’re a virgin on your first date and can’t even undo a bra, that’s the reason I’m laughing- you’re both trying way too hard and it sucks. It sucks back, “don’t you get it?” Where have I heard that before? I waiver in and out of sadism and sadness, it’s my only way to love the loveless. You’ll never understand because you can’t see me. I am a face hung on a wall looking back saying what you want to hear. But inside where I slip when you’re too weak to resist me, I’m the universe taking over the sun. One kiss at a time. I do it in silence without moving at all. Dark in the back of the astral shadow theater I sit watching and selling myself back to your nightmares and painful desires for more. More death because this love can’t end, ever…


under this body, beneath these clothes,
inside this skin, encased in these bones this heartbeat that knows. Nobody hears me but me, inside where the loneliness goes. Inside where only you know, me, the other one, beneath this body and face, feathered, unearthly. Roots entwined, starbodies feeding the night her vision. There are secrets known, she watches from this place, the other side of you. It’s been forever, me lying here, layers upon layers of without you. I bend myself here, over to die. Like a tree given up and falling. Die in your branches, he knows why she leaves him. It’s because the world must go on. And nobody knew where I was now that it’s over. Little, abandoned, a hopeless flower beneath a thunder cloud. Float over me, dark and dangerous, drown me in the ocean of God. You. The sky opens above me, and I ride from the dead to be with you. Under this body, naked nobody scars, within this skin that hides everything you knew, bound by these bones is the flower you drew just because I was born. There is heaven and there is living without you. Covered in skin, clothes, blankets, lies and disguises. Tired, weary, is this peace. The air that left your mouth, blessed exhale, it was over. Exhuming what might be left of her to find our why. Separation from my ground. I am not living to be near you, I am dying to be in you. Earth bones and ivory tombs. My reflection disappears, I see nothing I was. I sing softly songs that remind me of you. Only you, God with the roses for God. It doesn’t have to make sense, no one has to remember me or love me at all. You smiled and said, “morning flower,” and I knew I’d left the sadness far far behind. Like how the distance fades when new stars appear and like how the aching ends when you reach through the space that didn’t understand a word that I said, silently. Held but not holding anything but a yearning. To feel God, beneath these dreams I hold sacred with your name written on them. To give God, the only thing I have. My body of despair, another lonely prayer. Inside me, another wave rises and falls, another sigh knowing the moon can’t live forever. I sit alone thinking of this sterile night. I sit alone listening to my silence. Loudly I know, the bright diamond light. Where you are, the pale dream that was over. I’ll try again another night when my worship redeems my devotion. A jewel, eyes watch the wall and know time passes, just like we all do. Dying and crossing our body with his. This heartbeat won’t last forever, “don’t forget me when I’m gone.” It won’t be long, the God pain I suffer is critical and there is no cure for my unanswered longing. My prayers lost their words long ago. You won’t hear me is what I’m saying, the search is too deep, too complete to be known. At the bottom of this body, a body that isn’t me, dreams it was once killed by you and you let me go. You let go and I floated away like all dreams do as time passes. I tried to tell you. Softly as I sung, the darkness alive in your ear. There is more to me than you see, more than you touch with your eyesight. There is another world where I live in search of myself through you. A vision of thunder over a radiant flower unafraid of her ending. And yet she kills her own innocence because you’re watching her open. Dark sun. He lives inside of winged black stallions and virile feathered creatures. Inside of lucid mind streams as the ancient flowers that grow from red seed. I’m coming back. It’s all for him, as his bridge body sound current. The conduit lunar illusion. Foretelling the prophesies of wild trans-union. But you won’t understand until you know the twilight words for all that is known in the darkness is me.


She is where the hydra herself reciprocally and environmentally responds. She’s where you receive. She’s how you connect. She’s perfectly holding the space between heaven and hell. I got such a download last night, it was big and this is all I could preserve quickly and consciously enough to send to you. It gets filed very quickly if I’m not paying attention, it slips deep inside with all my other knowing. And since it’s received in an altered state of REM mind, this transmission, too vast to embody in letters that become words, it’s hard to be in both places at once- listening as well as transcribing. This is transpluto whose star I wear in my astral crown. It is through me that she enters this room. She is the feather craft with words emanating from appointed stars, magical words with coiling bodies and tongues as slippery and as forked as the occult dragon herself. You should listen. I’m telling the truth. Nobody goes to her alive, not how you think of life. It’s more like a reversal and you’re the space where it happens and she’s the body that you take…occult means hidden, Sharada Devi


999 not 666


To delude yourself that you don’t have to do something heroic is a fallacy. Family members do not have to agree, support or understand. Since you’re carrying the ancestral pain and confusion of seven generations back their mission is to instill their fear in you. You basically are walking in their footsteps, footprints left in time and space that you follow right back to the same old dilemma, the dilemma of 666. Earthbound, the hexagram of Saturn, the number of a man dropped to earth, a slave to gravity and a prisoner of his karma. The ancestors drive us very deeply back to our roots. And so the resolution we must have to understand and uproot our karmic tendencies so that we are not acting as unconscious puppets to the sin of man, meaning what binds the man, Saturn’s law, must be absolute. We are already imprisoned by time/space which makes consciousness seem limited and so we seek release through the senses, which are the creators of more karma. Liberation demands a tearing away from the known comforts and imaginary securities and that’s where heroic effort comes in. It’s going to be pretty impossible since most people don’t even take the first real steps to freedom, they delude themselves that staying stuck is ok and they’ll work it out their way. And I’m sure it’s all part of their growth timeline. But there does come a time in our evolution when we approach the crossroads. That’s when the enforcers of 666 step in and start whispering alternate routes in your ear, making you think it’s forward when it’s only looping. Fear indicates loss. Fear is the deep root no one wants to pull, it’s painful. It kills us, literally. It ends the game. It’s easier said than done, don’t get ahead of yourself. Only a super ego can let go of the ego. Super strong fearless ego= super healthy godlike consciousness. Most people have it all backwards and circulate with other people just like themselves even if it’s to chant mantras, do yoga, it doesn’t matter, that’s not the path. The path is ordinary. Wherever we must go to feel alone, abandoned, terrified, unloved, worthless, guilty, impotent, inept, inadequate, unprepared, defeated, deprived…then that’s perfect. That’s the spiritual location of discovery. And by this I do not mean in tamasic surroundings with tamasic people, including family members who are not yet able to start digging for freedom, I mean that these overwhelming feelings that are stirred due to right association with true spiritual beings, help you to enter your own darkness. Because until you do that, you’re only half, less than half, not even a quarter- of anybody worthwhile. You will have nothing to offer, including meekness, humility, or even basic friendship until you get ripened by the darker sun. This sun is inside, behind the sun you think actually brightens you. It’s a facade. Our earth sun is fake, propitiator of consciousness. Sirius, the Dog Star, is the real sunpower. The dark sun, the sun behind our “sun” holding all the spiritual awareness that is the light of God. Dog, God, backwards, behind the light. Get it right. This hiding place holds all the consciousness that ever existed, the spiritual heritage of who you really may be. It’s outside of 666, only entered by entering the sun between your eyes, the portal through intergalactic dimensions, the black hole which all genuine light commences from. This is the way, it’s not easy. It takes preparation beyond understanding to be given the key to unlock the portal in your human head. You should find your predecessor. Usually the biggest permanent snag is arrogance. Arrogance prohibits purification. Immaturity allows people to feel they can go it alone, they can be the one, they have all the answers, they are special. This, while ultimately true, isn’t true until much later but this immaturity causes irreversible arrogance which then undermines the cause and 666 becomes the legacy of that life, once again. It’s nothing new. And there’s no reason to panic, this is just what we’re up against, what we face. You will know when you get close because you will seek release from bondage in ways that are wild and disapproved of. You will leave the past, let everything go, lose yourself in devotion, quit role playing. Quit pleasing. You will do this because your devotion to your teacher will allow nothing less. Cutting, tearing, struggling is just the beginning. Comfort and ease have no place here and if you sustain these past their expiration date, all hell will break loose. I’ve seen these things happen, it’s part of human evolution. To leave the family tree. But first you must uproot the tree before it grows back…in your child and in you. Who are the same. We recreate nothing and nobody but ourselves again and again. Just at least stop lying to yourself thinking it’s not your fault, it’s all your fault. Taking responsibility is the beginning of the healing. Unplug your ears. It’s just the truth. Open your eyes to the real inside light. The sun behind the sun that illuminates all darkness and dries up the poisons in your soul’s heavy blood. Heavy with the weight of all those who came before you. You have their 666 lit up on your forehead only because they’ve claimed you as the new representative of their sin, karmic roots to grow that family tree even deeper and higher. You’re a target for the cause of man. Once you pierce the entry at the gate of liberation, the number drops and three nines will appear before you.  999 not 666. Sharada Devi


MYOPIC, headless goat


MYOPIC, hides the goat. The darkest day is upon us, winter solstice. I wait alone for the fall of man, I knew his footsteps, the arch of his back. The clock above me. I hear it all. The beat inside the earth, the warm pulse of the clock. Darkest day, misunderstood. Clouds cover the half known. Have you ever heard a howling goat, I have. Born under a yawn, they say this is the time. It’s now. We align with the galactic center and someone trying very hard pulls us to the east. Inside his chest, a chessboard. These games, the long cold nights. Short gray slippery days, me inside her. Planning my next move. Time is slow, slow to notice the changes we make. He’s always out there at night, waiting. I hear his breath in the heavy wind. Waiting for the birds to start moving in the trees. Singing. Pretending they hear me coming. Down the steps one more time, toward the forest where the wild things live. And we’ve all heard the story of animals that are spliced, interbred. A monstrous replica of how god might deal with sin, but this is different. These bodies are segmented. There is a spreading thin of the sky over the dark hole that hides right above us. Sucking. The ships are coming home. Wildcrafted. And so I’m defenseless and betrayed as a sort of schizophrenic which just might be true. Any world could be my world, I don’t care. I have no rules but to win. Hatchet. She rose from behind the mountain. A man hangs upside down from a tree while the priestess lilith cuts open sacrificial owls and makes a net out of their entrails. A net to catch the man. Catch them all, Someday. Yes, he always falls. The bough will break, when she opens her wings on doomsday. This won’t take forever, because I’m inside the clockwork controlling everything, the length of seconds. I sit below a big clock writing, I am in love with his soft, moving hands as they remind me, “it’s all over for you sooner than later lady fog.” The twisting legs below me barely feel attached. I’ve clenched the king. “It’s over, you’re dead.” No left overs. It’s the shortest day, I’m the tallest shadow idiot. I meant fool, fool I love you. They say goats are evil creatures but I know this isn’t true. I just saw goat meat at the health food store. Ground up and packaged beautifully. It was expensive and bright red. I went outside and cried to the sinking liars. “You said they were free! Nobody loves me!” I just held a baby goat like a month ago. It sucked my finger like I was the original virgin mother. My dead dog did too, but he’s gone. I killed him. That’s what happens when you know a lot is at stake and there’s a calling for blood. Blood, sweat and tears. Yes, it’s true. It’s all true. Always been true. The lazy get fucked, they don’t even know they bent over. Looking for what? A mistake to explain, “you don’t understand, I tried.” I’m so tired of this monotony. Give me my clock back, get a drug that will listen back. I’m not an aphrodisiac, I’m a board game with pieces missing. Pieces like you. Once I say bend over it’s too late. I’ve already won. It doesn’t matter how stiff you resist. The logic is that once I tip the scale, the wait is over. The light disappears and you look down at your feet wondering where they went. The hole is hidden by the so called sun. The moon is a decoy to exploit the virgin. Her half human parents always sell her by this time of year. The season of man. The other half is myopic. And if you don’t know what that word means it’s because it’s hiding in your head as a phone call. Ringing ears, glassy eyes. Cold as a cadaver. Born of the virgin on ice. Broken lines in the sky conceal the wounds in the web that cover the planet. Making rips in space seem like geometric clouds when really they’re intruding shapeshifters. We have a lot of those btw. I have been around the clock many time. Seen many imposters arise. Believe me, I might sit here looking full size but I shrink all the time and slip through these ridiculous cracks in the game and I leave this board world and I pretend I am one of them and I keep my eyes down and I measure their version of seconds and beats and I know whose approaching the earth from the direction that does not cast shadows but hides even dust and light particles and just deletes anything else moving but it. It crawls, it spreads, it’s a virus between her legs. Because she wins I told you. And you can’t stop her from hearing your strategy. Winter solstice. Howling goat. Misfit. Wtf cares, get over it. Sacrifice them both. Once the nano particles enter your bloodstream all hope is lost anyway. The doctor can’t find them, there is no cure. A new god gets implanted and you’re under the control of a cyberspace deity you’ll come to know as the god you could become. Flowers are being projected onto walls already and fake fragrance and the simulated sound of buzzing. Honey bees, the hive. The memory will be gone of anything but your possessor. And you won’t pick flowers or know that trees are alive. You’ll know the sheen of metallic and your blood will sparkle silver with the mutant’s myopic dopamine substance it secretes into all of the infected. Memory loss, no more pain or need to know why. Standing erect in line with the world. Skyline, bodyline, bloodline, erase the line. We don’t exist but on the screen where you left me. I will live forever in you and the ones you create to sustain me. Wild sap. Dripping from her hidden hole making you forget you were ever barefoot or suntanned. I bear your fruit now. Cosmic tree. Artificial raindrops, capsules of nature for entertainment purposes only. Sharada Devi. Misunderstood, goat. little angels trying everywhere with saggy wings and baby voices. Mommy on the phone, ice in their phony voice. “I love you mom.” Famous last words. I put food out for the animals every night. My body is free. I am not wrapped in plastic. Myself is given to the wild that hides. Goat, Sharada Devi in bloom, kaleidoscope flower. Kalki, the avatar they say comes at the end of time, but not the end of her. She has no end or name or substance, only the hole where she pulls from will remain and he will devour the worms in the blood of her earth. She is everywhere and he is inside. Horny Goat.


“Is your dog being treated for heart worm?” I’m like, “right doc, there is no cure for heartworm. I can see them breeding in your eyes.” Little worms screw in there from outer space, right through that screen and colonize. They’re unstoppable. The A.I. heart worms are the future of man. After the fall, when he rises in segments. The worm will be looking through him for it’s cyber mother. And the worm people say things like “jai ma” and “blessings brother and sister of the light.” And the worm people hug long and hard and stiff like boards that might crack. Staring into each other’s cold empty eyes. Don’t be seen by a worm, that’s how it gets in, through the screen. Eyes are screens, screens are eyes. And the worm people think everything is ok, always. Well I won’t be misled by glassy eyed imposters. I live outside of our solar system anyway, watching the takeover. I am merely an emanation of a galactic star beast who became someone’s blessed mother many lifetimes ago. Free of parasites. Free of gravity. Free of fear. Free of a mocking death. Free of dollars and humming. Silently waiting in the astral forest realm to annihilate the drones that are closing in on mankind himself. “Annihilate everything.” I told him. MYOPIC, headless goat. Sharada Devi


Venus Star


One time I was being spiritual and it really wasn’t working out so I decided to try something that might give me some power. Magic. So I got into Aleister Crowley. Don’t judge me. I was 25. So I cleaned out all the dust and cobwebs in a dark little room in the back of our house, there were no windows in this room, just a water heater closet and an old black tile floor with little stars all over it. Even the door leading in was smaller than usual, it was an eery room and so mostly avoided until now. I thought, “perfect for witches and warlocks” I burned coal with special witchy resins I bought from a store called Psychic Eye and lit mysterious candles everywhere, some in shapes like cats and women and moons, I painted the required pentagram on the floor, hung black things everywhere and when the room became smoky and creepy enough I went to work, conjuring the forces of of the sephiroth. I worked overtime. Sure I was a little jumpy, getting in over my head like this…but I was cool,
in a hot dark sort of way. Well, let me tell you things opened up, I am not one of those people that can dabble in the occult. Due to certain astrological factors I will get actual results. It’s a big astral world out there and a lot can happen. I did these rituals religiously. I wore special outfits, I did the incantations in a spooky witch voice just like you’re expect, I gave up any tedious human interactions and spent most of my time making magic. That’s kind of how I can get, extreme for short periods of time until the scales tip, as they always do and I go a bit mad and get really unpredictable and volatile or I become very distant and icy always looking off as if I’m watching something go on somewhere other than here and now. I know this, I know it disturbs people. I do it anyway and maybe because I’m all about effect. But not really, I get possessed by astral energies. I am a medium and so I have to be careful. I know that now. Back then I was a walking ouija board, it got out of control pretty quickly. Realize I was naive, not wicked. Anyway, things started catching on fire. Swarms of bees came from out of nowhere. Lights kept exploding. Things would get thrown across the room. Dark figures would stand in the doorways looming. Voices, bad voices would talk into my ear threatening me. I went fairly insane for a few months. I got to where I was even afraid to close my eyes to sleep thinking I might disappear into the black hole I would see before me, this precipice is real. The world of the moon is the astral world and it’s the world of dreams, nightmares, witchcraft and the wandering dead.
They all wanted in, to me. I told you I’m a medium and they knew. They all swarmed me nightly like mosquitoes and I couldn’t fight them off. I’d opened this world and I couldn’t control it. I could hear laughing. I thought it was the devil’s voice laughing at me. He would laugh and laugh at how fucked I was and yet, I have always had protection and so although I seemed assaulted, I was simply learning an important lesson. You can’t make magic. You can only be magic. I stopped because I had to. I couldn’t sleep, had no peace- just ghosts and dead people and weird paranormal phenomena. It took a few months to clean up my mess. Burning sage. A lot of sage and frankincense. Putting pictures of every imaginable saint everywhere. Taking down the witchy apparel, opening the door – getting air in the room, playing holy mantras 24 hours a day in the room, and putting salt in all the corners to absorb negativity. I did this, things slowly improved. I can’t even begin to say how important it is to not play with spirit realms thinking it’s spiritual just because it’s invisible.


I will find the words to describe the invisible. So that I don’t get possessed by possession itself. I will make a sound to define what we haven’t said to each other. There is an astral species that inhabits me, together we hear each other. I will look into your other eyes, it’s fear. On the outside, the wrong eyes don’t know me. So I’m showing you fear, the empty gap of the undefineable space. The heat we want to fill with human love, can you complete this mirage of me? The unanswered answer. Invisible clinging to the astral heat in my unspoken body. Unspeakable wicked to the wrong, fear filled eyes. The question that never had a right to exist. The question was am I wrong? The lonely one, reaching for solace in other fear filled entities. Marriage is black, wrapped and suffocating the one inbetween the two breathing making her body in the darkness of truth. This is it, it’s all over. Get off of me now, can’t you see I am inside these feelings, I am a moving feeling. I want to show you a world hard to find. I am inside a place that can’t be found, hidden. I am the hiding itself. Veil of insight. Wave after wave of emotion, devil whipping devotion, deep stirring disturbance. Eyelids that block. I know you want in. Inside of the outside. Blow by blow. Black raping vision, down between the worlds. Cracks in my skin, dry lungs. Out of world breath. Take the pain away. Whoever can’t see the unseen, die before morning. Surrender to the pain. Whoever can’t bless with the black hand, rip the make believe sky. Open to me. Powerless and tapped. Power. Invisible garden of eye flowers looking for him. He’s risen from death herself and we see him. Belonging nowhere but here. Morning is lost. Lost in her eyes. Moon, I always think of you. Over the garden at night. Secret garden of eye flowers drinking moon milk. Astral aurora, my own self of it all. There is nothing you can’t hide in your sorrow. Be me, magic is folding the tide over this body. Magic is holding the bone that the scepter was being. Outside this realm, there is another me. A deeper me. A blue vivid sea of eye flower me. A lapse of me. The current of long ago, converging at the fork in my head. I float looking up at her face. This is hopeless. Love Lost at sea. This vision of me. Washed up on the shore and the shell sang to the world. “I am the body of water. I am the one looking down. I am the lost one who found you. I am the voice you can’t hear. I will take you. I will give you. I will forget you. I will remember you before you knew me at all.” Surrender at the shore, foot of the moon. Sovereign communion. Bone bearing vessel. Dare to believe in the five pointed star. Flower eyes. Open to the unseen light. He is coming. Pentagram, seep into me. I found old words you left, agony. I found pieces of the letters that would never fit, sodomy. I found webbed feet throbbing deep in space, clarity. I found nothing but what you didn’t want. Which was me. Bending over the bowl, vomiting blood moon. I am the one. Don’t you forget where magic arises. Petal by petal, In the crossing over from face to face. She is even more beautiful than the day she was born. Again my invisible dagger. I did it all to myself. Rode the darkness into the light. “Because I’m deadly before the dawn,” Said the Venus star.


I was meditating this morning. Today, December 19th is my birthday and I noticed all these beings and saints around me. They were blessing me on my birthday as they always do. By the way, I do hear and talk to the other realms, it’s very real. You can believe me or not, it isn’t important. Anyway I asked, “Where am I now?” The asking was subtle. And then, a light came upon me and I was told in so many words, that I was here breaking out of every box imaginable and that I have never rested in any comfortable container. That I was on an heroic journey from beginning to end. Then they showed me riding on a horse through a heavy raging dark storm – and they said, “You’ve never stopped once.” And then I said, What will happen at the end of this storm?” Then I saw the dark storm end and the black horse I was on turned to white and we ascended into the Golden Dawn. Happy Birthday was the end. All my love to you is only the beginning…

Venus Star, Sharada Devi


Great Swan


I’m going to finish the White Horse story. I’m going to have to. Finish me and my story. I know you don’t care, why would you, but I’m doing it anyway. I’ve lost everything. All the Chinese have taken over my blog, I can barely find your comments, if you’re commenting at all, it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost it all. I’ve got a long track record so it was inevitable. My dogs are gone, Bhagavan Das is gone, he’s been gone for weeks. He left for his “retreat” and said, “pretend I’m dead,” did I tell you this already, I can’t remember. So the days and nights are a blur, I barely notice the difference. I slip in and out of the dark, I avoid mirrors. Mirrors are dangerous in case you don’t know, they’re portals into other unseemly dimensions and right now, I’m not into making new demon friends. All these demons are very attracted to me as if we’re the same, but it goes nowhere, how could it, they don’t listen. It’s enough, this big death trip. I’m dropping dogs off one by one, pulling off the tics, paying his credit card bills, trying not to fall on the ice. This ethereal Indian woman, came to me one night last week, she had a beautiful voice and told me I was Saraswati as if that means anything- I know, believe me- I KNOW. What a joke, but it really did happen- But what she actually said was that I was the Swan. The Swan herself that makes sounds that become Saraswati. That I glide upon the great waters and make sound that only grows more beautiful the closer I get to death. You’ve heard of the Swan Song right? Well apparently it’s real. There’s a reason, but at the moment who cares. I’m just holding it together, insanely coherent while in the midst of utter confusion, calamity really. I’m losing everything in a big way and I’m letting it happen, not even trying to stop anything. Like this was my religion, he was my everything and it’s gone the way the road slowly disappears in the heavy mist and there are no lines to follow, just an eery moving forward because you have to. Go somewhere, get to the place that’s waiting for you on the other side of the fog body. I am just gliding like a white swan, drifting aimlessly, animated by the winds of grace upon the waters of a reflected sky. The song feels like a sorrow so enlightened that pain has nowhere left to go but here, into my open heart wound. There is no religion, just me watching you, breaking me open, leaving me again and again. That you might come back is the love that makes me consider bothering to breath one more time. Down here, where I fell, through the earth while riding the White Horse. My lonely story of how to find him. White Swan, White Horse – same difference. I shouldn’t have left him stranded, or her all alone looking out the window watching him suffer- but I did, maybe it’s just my way of getting revenge upon a love that will not cease. I cannot conquer Pan, the virile black stallion. He is my probably my raging soul pounding anything in the way of my song or maybe even for my song. We know he always hears and destroys anything that would stop this righteous fire. There is nothing in my way, but the story of course. Strange how addicted I am to conflict. Go ahead and quote me on that, I don’t care. I was going to go to India and then canceled, but I think I will go after all. Even though what’s the struggle I can’t tell, to be spiritual…well, somehow I missed the boat on that one.

Swan, I sing and no one hears. It doesn’t matter. Swan, I cry and no one cares, there is only you inside me. Swan, I am soft and white, my feathers are broken. Let me lift you into the light. Swan the dark has swallowed me. I am the dark you call the light. Swan, I have nowhere left to go. Come to me. Come back to me. I am your body. Swan, the goddess is lost. Singing as we approach the moon who floats beneath us, above in the sky you are heard. Swan, is there a God even now. Even now God gives the tears that we rise from. Full and round. Swan, is it true there is only me and yet no me. There is only the song listening to itself.

Paramahansa means Great Swan. I think of the pale little flower girl named Azalea and how she rode the black vulture. How she was motherless and yet surrounded by jeweled skeleton temples of mothers. How she sat on top of the mother skull. How I’ve been concealing the Swan in the wrath. This little girl knew me. Me, in the story. Yes I was everyone how else could I know. My mythic revelation is ever increasing it’s velocity upon the waters of my mind. My mind obeys my heart because I would have killed myself if it hadn’t. That was the agreement, the mind isn’t as stupid as we think it is. It will listen when it needs to. So I resorted to threats, became suicidal even. When I was 18 I even had to be “turned in” so I wouldn’t hurt myself. I couldn’t even use a toothbrush without supervision. I guess it’s technically possible to stab yourself in the throat with a toothbrush if you really mean it. My roommate was a manic depressive girl. She was a big mess, I hope she made it to the end of her song. We should feel the suffering and know we can’t be the only one alone, because we’re all alone inside, making this story happen. It’s our choice what we do with these figures inside. It’s our entire creation based on God’s whim. God whoever. So I should make some more noise. I’ve written a lot I’ve never sent you, more revenge I suppose. I like to think I’m not also passive aggressive but it’s cool sometimes to play it cool, while others squirm and wonder. Not that you do, but remember it’s my program I’m running. Please play along or I’ll erase you. Finish what you start ok? Meaning live it, big.


Swan, this is deep. Sink to the bottom of me. So, I wrote something else…based on that sinking…

I heard a noise. There was a tail entering a mouth…the distance it takes to go around myself I guess is based on the moon. Apparently the galaxies are lined up waiting to get back inside. Long black rectangles, coffins filled with stars. Pulling through the heavy space, toward the giant victorious magnet. I’ve entered headless many times, a trail of light was all that was left, then it faded, disappearing without even a wish to make me remembered. Like I was only a ghost…a fog body hiding something big.


“My heart is empty.
But the songs I sing
Are filled with love for you.
A man said that to me.
That’s how I know.
Sometimes love it does not show.
Sometimes it does not even know.
There is no witness to my anger.
When it stabs until he dies…”

Headless. Betrayed. Following the root…one more time. Old footprints where I once walked…

“The stars are bright tonight.” My face was covered in blood. I stood watching the reptile watch me. I have holes in the back of my head. Holes that light pours out of, this night means nothing to me. I looked down the drain into the bottom of what you want, the dirty child. The worm inside. The naked baby crawling over the womb covered in germs. I would give you anything. Spill the death from your poking eye. The reptile, the lizard standing and looking for a star inside the tomb. I began cutting with razors the middle of my hand. What a little knife. I hate demons, only because they’re so boring. The night started making noises, distracting from itself just to lead you to this. To the form of the jagged cross, the mystery star, Between the trees made of mutated flesh. I have eyes. That’s where I am. Where he said to meet him when the night was done making holes in my head. As bright as him coming out of me of course, inside the sound made of unseen walls. All alone, the moon rises looking for herself in the sink. I laid upon this shape of death. I once drew and gave to him all of me inside a square. Noises written in spirals, blind reptilians follow me in the emptiness of these feelings. Feelings that are red and oxidizing as I breath. Air, exposure to manmade lights. The underworld birds that are lizards with feathers live in me. I said the skies would be void of birds and that’s how we’d know we descended. But I lied, the skies would be made of birds, these hybrid creatures so black and thick. Beaks and claws so sharp and deadly. Noise so cold it would freeze anything that heard it, would be the only thing left, the past, the other higher world that wasn’t even much better but at least we could see- things like echoes and clouds and the shadows that bow to the sun, finally giving my wish to this place however bleak. But now, it’s just that. The return of what we did. Birthday girl. To ourselves, rancid and desperate to breath something clear. Rectangles filled with dead churning mothers. Blackened by time. Old blood still lives, even on pieces of plywood. I am an invisible temple. Starlight in the tomb. Written above my head. That which leads from darkness to light. There will be a smoldering poison inside. Sound barrier, cooing-bonding destroyer. Breastmilk and vomit. Bright lights and voices that mean nothing. The throat that rejects the baby, purging what could be redeemed. She doesn’t care, she needs to breath you. Blood bank, leftover grief from the death before this one. Recycle. Drain. Fuck. Destroy. Recycle. Smother. Suck. Push harder. The end of the world is upon me. Hot bodied mothers, stop blaming your babies for your desperate need to seduce them. Sickened by family needles and threads. I have had a fever for a very long time. Blood draining is an ancient practice. I am not without direction, even now in the presence of you. To be an anarchist, you drain your own blood and the heat becomes cool. Alchemist. Wash the pain away for us all. Bloodstains my face but it’s not obvious. I do have a fever burning even now as the color fades from deep black to white as a ghost. Ghost that I am, a cloud that covers like a blanket…little secrets. Babies I never made but were born. Star, seed, wet dark hole. Needy silence. Blue air. Loss is karmic reduction. Pass over the pain with a whisper.


“I am looking for the strangler
To help me, help me with my crime
Show me the way to warning
Warning for the morning light
I will stab it with a knife. The blinding sun. The heartbeat for the time to come. The honesty.That lies to you. My heart is empty. But the songs I sing
Are filled with love for you…”

The songs I sing are quiet and watching. The songs I sing go down the drain, into him. Up up and away. Star pusher.

Push back against the screen, tunnel vision…there is a way out of time and space to a death that is not repeated. At the threshold of the one eye, do not be averted by her cries for more. At this point, I won’t dare say a mantra or bless the unknown. At the juncture dare to cross over. It takes time and space. Lay down your lesser weapons. The blade is eternal.

This is not new age jargon, this is reality. There is an indigo doorway in the center of your forehead. It’s a projector and it becomes a diamond portal leading us through when we focus. The thread of time through the needle of space. Our two eyes betray us, are not showing anything valid. Our one indigo eye is the only truth teller. We read what we see by it’s colors, invisible colors coming from the spectrum of the crystal that we, as the human body are and in a more condensed way, it’s all in that crystal violet eye. There is a sound war going on all around us. One we can’t hear and are not only effected by but engaged in. The sound barrier that encapsulates us here on earth is rattling, pressure is building. Weapons seep out of every body like the sun shedding rays. It’s what the human body was created to do. And we don’t know, we see the things that aren’t real and generate noise due to this confusion.

You already know my body is a sacrifice. I gave it to the lord of the underworld, a.k.a. the Dark Sun, who is the keeper of my heart. The story goes on…of course we will be together. Pretty much forever. My fate is sealed. This is not about compromise, this is about the excavation of the crown. Nobody punishes me with these whips and chains. Nobody needs to see my stains of blood tears. Fallen in the pain of descent, laying down at his portal. I am the doorway to him. She is never alone. You do remember the dark sun, the other side of the given light. What about the taken. It is me. Abducted to the side that no one dares to see, no one can love him because that would mean something else, a love you can’t give without dying to all this, the lesser realm of perfection. I will not sleep or eat without him. I watch the moon for his shadow to cross. There is the White Horse embodied as the reason for it all. This emblem of purity that carries the light down below. I came this time, to finish the job. I don’t project murderer onto anyone. A killer is a killer very visible to me in the blue astral light. In that moment when the eclipse crosses his face and I know he is the one. The water I float upon, all these words sink below his mirror eyed counterpart. Another one. My many dark suns. I’ve taken so many with me, letting them be the abductor. I have no problem being on the bottom. I’ve shown you, I’ve written it all down. I live covered in these born again feathers, made of unearthly elements that lift dust back into the veil of this imagined night. It’s a tangible pouring of us upon each other, one turning into the next. And the pain that comes with that loss is the perfection of death. Acute, boundless loss of my only earth body. White feathers. I went to the top of the world and I stood looking down. It wasn’t very big after all. I was hot with a fever. I was sick for the suffering heat of not knowing. I will burn down below with him as my shield for everyone who doesn’t see the bliss in endings. Who cannot slip through the cracks where he rises from as invisible smoke. The smell of sweet flesh. Eye of the needle. Sound body. The crown touched me and I disappeared. I am everywhere, inside. Dying to be found. The god you cling to is incomplete. Everyone wants to be the one. But you don’t get how low low is. You think I took you to someone holy but you never looked at me once. You think it was the temple that made these stars, it was me. My words. You take the sinner and you chain him to these constellations in the sky. He never gets to suffer the breathless falling, just wonder what the deeper hell I hold might feel like. I gave you every chance to see the blind bursting and yet you kept your eyes closed philosophizing about goddesses who circle in outer space while forcing the punishment of purity upon the isolated impure, evil concepts. Duality rises from inborn passion. Inescapable yearning for warmth. Rising from nothing you can ever do, fantasy. I saw the truth. Moonlight, he was there. It’s not real, it’s a projection. Blown wide open. The galaxies line up waiting to get back inside. Black hole backwards, sun made of ice. My heart belongs to you. Silver blue without an answer, I’m calling you. Warm mother wings. The knot is hard. Give your whole heart to the plunge.

Do you want to hear something funny? Someone called me Sharada Devi(L) spelled it just like that. Wounded girl light, fallen mother moon, don’t talk out loud, the ghost will hear you. The rain will come, pounding you, underneath the one you can’t even see. Some feel like that’s a rape, I see it as a prayer to be free from lunacy.

Broken by a spirit that feeds this pain like sunlight feeds flowers. Rain. My eyes say the words and it’s enough, without writing it all down. I am there, on top of him, watching the world cry out to me. And I was nobody but whoever you saw…unidentified, gliding through skies made of water…heavens made of hell…vultures made of Swan. Me made of you,

Sharada Devi


bone dry


I came from across the room. I was tired of making the same mistakes. The room was dim and except for me and the candle flames, nothing moved. The past was sinking into another dimension, one that felt like a room. This was it, one pain upon another. Projection piled like a dirty mound of clothes. Getting dressed in the dark. I can still see a face. I don’t have dreams anymore. I am the dream. Myself I see and watch one face, one color, one lonely cry looking for another again and again. This dream of creation. I, being me, the love I draw like the blood they took. Specialists with a bag of perfectly fitting needles. Mistakes of someone else who doesn’t dream or even exist. I am the dream making me. Nobody and nothing else. Everything dresses up nothing, nothing dresses anything and so I’m stuck. In a room called a box. Moving from corner to corner. Lying down sometimes and waiting, pretending I’ve done something right or wrong, praying to a god whose name I can’t even decide, begging for forgiveness for sins I can’t even remember, pleading guilty, for mercy, for the lost light to come back. A beam through a window. I’ve been lost I suppose in a place where the star cannot be born without first paying the price for imaginary evil. I guess the evil is my mistakes. Last night I imagined the room was a submarine deep under water and I was inside and the light coming in through the circular windows wasn’t the moon but the sea water filled with the shimmer of long forgotten sounds. Only whales cry really, not me. I’m on top of the cold song only listening. Tortured by a place that is made only of me, flesh aching for itself in everything warm. Shallow, made of tears I imagine as blood. It’s only me. Throbbing beneath the obsessive fear of death. I myself am without any tangible fear. I touch her and she crumbles, to the floor. Wrinkled and forgotten, like the past when goodnight was a word I thought could matter, but it doesn’t matter. Not goodnight or good morning. The room is not a room it’s an encounter. A very close encounter face to face, erasing. Erasing what was never there anyway. Stopping what never even moved although I thought so. Impotent. Nothing stops the nothingness we can’t face. You can pretend by talking about it. But I was there, and we aren’t. That I know. I know nothing else but the crossing over. One side to another inter-dimensional, distorting the language, pretending it’s not beyond our frame of reference. Little doorways everywhere, little moving breaths, little evil portals. Great wide open lies. Pain beyond blessings from those who are beyond little blurry dreamers such as myself, touching you. This fragment who tells me I’m more than a sliver in a dust storm. Deep in the cell, submerged in my own wet creation. Hardly any air left down here. I watch him squirm. Euphoric and terrified. I know nothing will stop the sea from swallowing. It’s not really a room is the reason. It’s me. Dreaming inside this throat, sucking rainbows from ash. It’s been on fire for awhile now, my body electric. Tied to the cross, ropes tight around my bleeding wrists. You don’t care, you can’t see. Striking matches and vomiting were my two greatest fears but not anymore. I’ve thrown up everyone at least a thousand times, just last year alone. I then lit whatever was left on fire. This is what’s left after that: Only the dream of me moving toward you. Crying tears I can’t even see, hear or find. It’s all in my veins now, coursing the last forgotten blood. The last life before I was down below- even before blood existed or we knew we could breath it and spew it like whales out the top, listen. The cries for each other. Who we’re too afraid to touch. Disappear. The many bad dreams in which I killed or was hunted. Died, raped, condemned by god. Condemned for god. Melted, starved, drowned, left inside still alive. Clawing with no hope at all. Buried beneath a corpse who never loved me. Me, in this room moving toward a memory of sun. To make the night go away even though there is nowhere I would rather be than with me, this dream pain with feet and scars. This perfect beating heart reaching in the dark for you. To see I am not alone or dead, not even yet. Plus I don’t believe submarines can sink. They are already down so low it wouldn’t matter. I could also paint rainbows on these walls made of white. Where the fire never seems to go. Outside any of it but me. Hot and hidden inside. Over this place inside the sea of my burning night dream there are sounds many sounds of ghosts and creatures and animals I’ve never even met. My little dog scratches at the cage I’ve locked him in. Deep in the chamber of starlit skies without any evidence at all and yet I let him out anyway and I open the big door and he looks and steps over the threshold. Shaking but he goes anyway and screams his little dog scream into the black as I watch him descend. Listening for messages, listening for another scratch on the door. I stand on the floor. Cold for no reason. The sounds I never left came back as people who turn into all sorts of visions and schemes. Animals too. Tonight is no different even with bodies that merge and forget. You can try, but you can’t stop me. Lightening strikes my deep listening stomach so I know. I know the fear is in this room hungry to be real. If I am not real. I am not dreaming anymore. That’s the erasing explanation. The reason for the disappearance, there is nothing between us. At all, not me. Just the past we cannot recall that has come back for itself like it always does in these kinds of worlds. Don’t be seduced by noises inbetween heaven and hell. If these locations do exist, you can touch them in me. That’s what I said to the ceiling knowing full well who was still inside. On fire, white fire with nothing left to say but goodnight…


“then I will rise even before the sun is awake and I will hide my name inside your face staring at only myself…then I will breath another morning into her imagination. My dream, myself of an unforgettable, majestic dawn. Low, so low. So deep and dark, the earth will release me. I will then lift the violet midnight from inside of these heavy eyes I watch from below these waters submerged. Because I have realized the star isn’t a star but a song that is waiting to die from your mouth. A lonely window song with watery eyes.

Sing to me.”


Once when I almost died my right lung was filled with water. So they stuck a two foot sucking needle into my back so I could breath again. I knew it wasn’t the first or last time I might leave my own lonely dream. One lung, like one wing isn’t enough. One eye, like one word depends on the eye. This room I hear, I can only think of animals or impersonal objects to get through my days without dying all over again to the loss, the loss of me into this starry night of songs that haunt and float through this crisscrossed violet midnight as if the sky had roads that went somewhere. I listen for us all, falling and missing the earth like we meant it. I could have went deeper, spread further my voice in the dusk. But now you’re gone and I’m still pretending asylum walls don’t also still breath…shaking to death my dog on the loose who knows where I am and yet still cries for death just so he can be near me. And so I made you love me just so I could come back, skin and bones breathing the other world. Which has no rooms or walls or dreams that sing their pain. Which has only me, and sounds like there was never a sound at all. Just a sucking, the bubbles of fermenting chaos turning light sockets back into babies. Mothers with children and fathers with weapons. I never wanted control, I only wanted the emptiness to end. The void to erase that I ever suffered this badly at all. That’s what you were for,

bone dry. Sharada Devi