What is the core that I suffocate myself to mimic?
If I was a child kicking in the sheets
From a dream,
When I consumed Freud.
Black tar and spring coagulate like
The cane of an old man,
Crafted by some desperate, willing maiden.
Big mouth gaping, I don’t know
What a succubus is.
The core has raised my jaw to
Clench.
Your fangs are alogia but I have a
Moon in my mouth!
A stench.
Shit under leaves are the mounds
Of my love.
And I come in fringes to desicate
The urges that I love to shove.
A call sweetly forbid, in vaults I
Slowly play what I shed.
Dark fantasy music welcomes you in
To the House Without Clocks
Renaissance venusian sex magic
Your sin, baby white serpent, come and take it.
A prostitute spars with the trickster painting trader.
The shining needles of sword catch the sun, fire rains across the garden grounds.
People will drown Lilly’s for our laughter.
But we don’t have any daughters, our hands only touch each other’s foreheads.
With Lilly water we paint secret maps of the canals, where treasure is found.
Spreading egyptian lipstick on our tongues,
The loving or sheepish fever from it.
Full sentences are for business or marriages only!
Words that mean the World,
rattle off the tongue as if yearned.
This is the language of the Gestalts of Love.
To drink wine; laughing, trading, fucking.
We were hired by the garden to be background singers for their daydreams.
Those who drown the Lilly’s are who make our paint,
So we can retrace the maps of roads they didn’t take.
You write a satire for Time when you paint my forehead, others watch as if they had discovered how to move clouds for the first time.
To watch through Lilly water.
The ideas a painting trader and a prostitute can mold. How currencies of secrets and cleverly can create gold.
I dig so far into spring soil, I touched the leaves from the fall.
Grass stains, the doves of blood descend on my flower lamb.
Aurora cries, violently bobbing up from a venusian plumeging.
Mouth agape, virginal gills redeeming, unseen but you and the falls quivering leaves.
Giggling at the rolling visionallys,
mossy land bodies writhing in sexuatical delirium.
You can read on my quill tongue I need Pan,
My heels kick to match your hooves,
But now i’m squirming like tadpole sperm
In early summer, treasure deepening diver.
Your voice krakens from the apocalyptic bouquets of heavens,
Smearing whiteness on my tail onced wound,
‘Swim through and around me, say-soothe.’
I sit in Phantasmagoria, my body turns in my mothers glossolalia.
A ferris wheel I have found myself in,
Wrapped in a feathered serpent,
Its tongue where my insides could’ve been.
Is this Gods love? Who am I now but the God of Love?
Shapeshifting, god morphing, he is keeping from bursting out laughing.
‘My blushing owls’ nest! Our love comes from the heart-on of the human’s chest.’
Hekate, a hectic aussie tititantacalizes me.
Pheromones unleash charon’s ferry moans!
After friction smell my flower dandelion.
Red velvet lines quizzing your mind over bleeding thighs.
Im a target Diana! Miss orgasmic florid phantasma.
Hooves trammel love and war, paws cause clever cleavers
To dig up treasures forever more.
But his hands, inked with twinkling blink eyes,
Black bark and algae spark. Pubic moss peachy purity fuzz,
Veil over our watering white things in glow fog.
I give life from rain, fallen from the birthbath crumbling alone.
Vulnerable secret of my moon bath, schizophrenia.
How we were in the womb, my grieving tome.
It was a spike of jasmine, scent travels in thorns across snow, an essence carried not by loftiness. My feet landed in thorned arrival and she stood witnessed, my pregnant night owl.
Blankets of breathless snow lay for her discomfort but it reddens my gums and tongue.
Idle toys in white trash piles, they sleep on ice dreaming for warmth underground. Glances of Dionysian laughter shudders the solid wind, she knows that she’s not pregnant, she’s dreaming.
Trails of my existence gaslight her as I walk in canoe shoes towards her swelled phantom.
Lighting four fires in cardinal projection, snaring her to provide the birch logs. This is a book burning for toys, infertility has killed irreverence, the cold licked your lips of voice.
What means nothing means something is walking down means I don’t know means who are you means Hello.
Silence speaks, ‘throw all of your toys into the fire, what will awake?’
She hands me logs to feed the fires and her plastic things blossom to black anuses.
Pregnant night owl stands behind me, pretends she is meek, she’s afraid I will eat her.
I do her work for her but I do not share her heart, I am the janitor and she the queen.
Throwing in toys into these fires as if testing bunk fireworks, we wait to see what awakes.
A plastic white horse is thrown up on the flame, but no black anus is bubbling but from it a kick and a revving.
The horse grows the height of I, but it turns from plastic to real life.
It dances in the fire and I stand back watching a toddler convert into a star.
The voice of silence was answered and my pregnant night owl revered. But I tended with greater focus and saw no reins.
In flames the dancing horse jumped out like a mutter from a dream, and we walked up a snow hill out of the gardens steel gate.
All from a dream.
To my guest in the land of Easter, let me welcome you into insanity that holds no fear.
Garden green reaches out for me to take lingerie,
My grandma winks and then her eyes bend into the leaves.
On a piano a redhead sings oh forget the Greeks Venus, for I love the old Venice!
Behind the mane of an emerald lion, peeking through his hairs we see a sentient fountain.
Medieval flutes dance on the little bumps of legs,
The angels couldn’t know my type of language, if I didn’t practice with them.
Mustn’t not move any sun hats from copper hooks;
In the land of Easter bugs work inside of them, who else could tend to our Imagination?
Deep into the sun stained meadows, we strain our eyes on the vermilion puppet we call Laughter.
His face dressed in jester porcelain.
Too small to be held by strings, he dances in the green like a red devil on exotic angel wings.
Shadows here compliment those who lay in triads or more.
Hidden away from the man who waves his hands angry in the empty air.
For my guest who dares to come near, step down from your ballerina jewelry box.
The redhead and her piano will eat your sorrows and our flutes may play to your insanities desire.
Suppression is no friend here,
Even upon the tongue of the Beast, we leave notes of wisdom and fresh pear.
Angel trumpets are flowers yet they play music only to walk your demon to.
To my guest, skip and dance while you are here,
Wisdom hates linear form and orderly fear.
It takes a lot of guts, constantly cleaning the windows just to touch a ray of lucifer. Blood stained high cheekbones. Sapphire eyes and red lips smiling, laughing. Deep red heroin. Prostitutes who fuck so they can describe the tombs.
She is so eager. I can hear the ribs inside her pussy rattle as a snake God cleans her out. Make her a new person before the redling wakes up.
The way bone marrow flaps, it vibrates like a cat’s predatory chatter. A choir begins to scream in the pack. How healing comes for the whore sideways!
Everyone sits back and waits, until they see her strip away at her red layers. Dropping each red garment to the clay floor. Rosacea seared her meat, widowing her whiteness to make glossolalia musique.
There is a kind of light that shoots between birds. Silent crescent lovers who ignore the masses. Soil makes it soft to make passivity manic.
Those who do not know Death, are sent to work the Aerial tolls, where they live off their own illusion as patriarchal trolls.
Passivity is not attractive to the ant who’s afraid to die.
Those birds flock South like tissue from a uterus. Fertile land on fire attacks anyone who defends it. Dancing upon alabaster are shadows of heretics.
Low vibrato tenderizes a pale birth. The healing that is violent of Iain Sinclair, consoles the dent carved on the heads of abandoned children. This is red lipstick and carmine beetles in tandem, a mothers secret.
My skin sheds. Limpid thimbles dropping in pools of mirror, my name is Temperance. Blood, touching it makes incense spread black and wide. Old reliefs are still breathing in treasure banks. To sift and wade in my dreams of algae and cyclopian weddings, do not run.
I tell my rosy cheeked girls, don’t leave the outhouse of Hades until those tendrils are clove hitched.
To have Temperance is to have memory move through the body. it’s just a feeling of intuitive catharsis, anything else is dysecdysis.
When I feel vulnerable I do not waste small spaces. When I feel afraid I do not waste adrenaline. When I am Death I do not waste life.
I make my serpent glow, for it is receptive in these moments! And I do make its flesh glow lagoon green; the color a Maiden blushes during her first fiend.
I view you like marbled shine of fat on a chuck eye cut.
No, I don’t have a fetish for 17th century authors. I want to fuck what was hidden for me to find.
The idea of time kills your erection? Wisdom (Chokmah) feels the same.
A cryptic text written by a soft hand wrapped in tender flesh makes me cum more than you can.
Sometimes it doesn’t, it depends on how long you can fuck the past.
Sometimes they can only fuck the future, eager moans turn into echoes.
They jump into the mouth of whos tongue only cries and consumes.
The tongue helps them die as a Christian martyr, on the precipice between children’s thighs.
To reach wisdom and the meat it contains in butchery, learn how you could fuck a woman or man in shy reach of your century.
A simple practice, what harm could be done?
To self create a sensitive memory, to induce.
To self create a memory without it being inflicted.
To create a fetish thats deeper.
To be one not just with the present.
To be one not with the community.
To be One with the Noone.
To drop eggs not only in the same bed.
But throughout time.
Just like Einstein intended.
“Christa, would you like to see my study? I couldn’t help but overhear that you are a fan of the more Neptunian and Vernian artes and I may have a few relics in my office that would amuse you. I promise I am too old to bite.“
His last comment would have scared me but his goofy English charm showed some of his higher judgments and I felt somewhat of a relief from the man’s distinct charm. A real Donald Sutherland type, Janus is.
So I followed Janus through the double glass doors into this mahogany study, air humid with feverish ambrosia.
“Christa, I’m in my sixties but I feel much older. I have two daughters, both who mean ten sephiroths to me. You have met my lovely Marcia and her charming temper. My other daughter is estranged and has been for a very long time, not out of any ill will but it’s due to her nature. My other daughter, you see, has this ability to influence people in strange ways and because of this she has to live a life of solitude and travel.”
“What kind of strange ways?” I asked.
“She can control people’s memories, and how they perceive them later on. But a wretched mess she is; hardly human so she disguises herself in with disheveled artists. She attracts martyrs, sometimes I think she’s the one who turns people into them.”
“How does she do that?”
“Because of how beautiful she is, you remind me of her Christa.”
“I would like to meet her. Sometimes I fear that I forget my memories. That I almost forget who I am, looking to men to help me understand who I should be.”
He crosses his legs and looks at me as if I had just stolen something from him, he subtly grins. He doesn’t believe me, doesn’t trust that I’m telling the truth. The high, black ceiling of his office drapes down to try and touch me. I could tell he used to be a butcher, or some kind of leather maker.
Thick, dark fuschia drapes linger over the windows, dampening all day light and all sound. Pink lips closed, hiding a Sun resting upon my skittish tongue. Because of the citrine glare from the candlelit lamps, shadow play is strange in this room. He’s sitting across from me on a french rococo couch and I’m left dangling in a cocktail sofa chair.
He responds, “You want a lithean release just to see if a man could remind you of who you were before you got all old and crazy. This way, he can just tell you what you are instead of you having to figure it out for yourself.
My question to you is, why are you sitting here in my office playing this mind game with me and not the man you came here with? Your boyfriend, Christine. Why are you sitting here, lying to me?”
His voice was too calm to respond with an emotional reaction. He’s playing a game of chess with me. My tongue swelled up slightly, my chest and neck began to sweat. A suppressed warish fever exacerbated the air.
“I am not lying, only trying to make you understand. And Lee isnt my boyfriend. He doesn’t see me in that light.” His idea of understandment is sticking his cock into a venus fly trap, he’s not opposed. He chose to stare and analyze me. The bottom of his eyes dropped into limitlessness. He’s now finding what would dominate my muses. Grazing, stalking the R’lyehian field mines of my mind.
He unfolds his legs. Taking only what’s been peeled raw, an occupational hazard. In order to cure what had been tainted after death, he prefers to get his leather unprocessed so he can dehair it himself. “Does he not see you in that light only because he knows he shouldn’t?”
“Why would he think he shouldn’t?”
“Christa dearling, anyone who approaches my house (which is extremely rare) is immediately profiled. Decades of high service granted me some nice skip tracing software. And it looks like you and Lee are cousins.”
I could tell this Janus character was trying to provoke me anyway he could which I found kind of dirty. And I chose safely to not dignify his crude comment with an answer.
Realizing I was too tense to open up, we changed the topic and talked about a recent deep sea exhibition he did out in Chilé. My scattered thoughts inflected into a masochistic syntax. I was trying my best not to imagine his arms reaching into opaque absences, inside somatic coral. Every word he said is always more unexpected than the last. I may as well sit here dispossessed.
“What were you hoping to find the most when you were going down?” I asked.
He ran his fingers through his thick white hair, pulling a lock back from falling in his face.
“I always search for the same thing when I’m diving; the Tyrianna Nobilis. A certain breed of the species that lives near those coastlines.”
“Nudiplura, I frequent sea slug forums all the time.” I stopped myself before getting too wordy. The more flashy or flamboyant I’ll become the more he’ll sense I’m trying to derail the conversation. As if he thinks I’m the shiny lure in this situation.
“Why do you like that one in particular?” I asked strategically meekly.
He cocked his head slightly to the side responding, “Why have you been going on Nudiplura forums? Perhaps you do to feel something. Tell me some of the causes why women endure physical numbness during sex. Most importantly, tell me what the difference is between sociological excuses and reasons for vaginal wetness.”
“I can feel things down there, up here just fine. Why would you say Lee and I are cousins?”
My muscles started to tense up again, my inner thighs and lower abdomen. He leaned back on the couch, spreading out his arms. His lower jaw structured to tear the throat out of Cerberus. Large draconian teeth trying to hide themselves from me yet peaking out so subtly as he said, “I’m surprised you’ve been so pent up as of late, you know you have to avoid stress. And it’s not my fault he didn’t tell you, it’s not my fault you’re obsessed with him.”
If only we went to a normal house for a spare tire; I was beginning to grow suspicious of who exactly I was dealing with. Wondering if he knew that Lee and I came from the astral, if he knew who or where Hely Scemath was. We exchanged a glance of mutual understanding and silence filled the room with a kind of sorrow.
But before I started to derail into wariness something about his eyes, a kind of Wisdom that lingers under a mothers foot gleaned something within me. That sea slug he loves to search for must be as charming as a soothsayer is to Judgement.
He went on, “you know, when i’m down there looking for Tyrianna Nobilius, I always have to fish out these salvatory cottony webs that hover over the opening walls of coral caves where they usually hide themselves in. These specific types of slugs like to create what some call ‘veil plasm’. It’s part of their only defense mechanism towards larger predators; they create an optical illusion by creating these attractive webs to distract the perpetrator from the actual slug. It’s what gnosticism did to Wisdom, adding a price to something free.
The treasures you let yourself keep, Christine, in Death or Life, will always be.”
I hesitantly gleaned further into his silvery eyes. Thinking of Tyrianna’s web. (Indra’s Net).
The web stretched apart in my mind like wet, blonde hair covering the face of a sea nymph. Now I know what turned Janus on; women bred without hypocrisy. Someone who knew Judgement well, to the point where they knew Judgements falsities. Yet my legs were glued shut with sweat, sitting there on that chair, I am probably just a Nebulis’ veil to him, something that has to be scrubbed clean to see a mucusy polished shine. A perfect oyster fits into a perfect bed in his mind.
The moisture in the air grew heavier from our tandem, my degeneracy from suppression gave weight to my eyelids. I kept pretending that I wasn’t turned on. The last thing I’d want to do is appear to him as unclean. Shadows dispersed along the walls above us like black inky sea urchins. Fordyce spots, soft and strange, lingering everywhere above our heads.
“Take your sweater off, you look febrile.”
I did and he quickly asked, “do you know how to remember who you are?”
“I think so.”
“No you dont. You hide yourself away, under a veil. Under a nueraplura’s shell. If you think you’ll stay afloat with borrowed legacies from other men, whom you have never spoken to but only have read, you’ll only drown back to me, back into my office that you’ll soon call the Deep Sea. Take off your shirt. You get off so much by the Judgement of Mars, I could only assume you have enough confidence to do at least that, lest you’re riddled with hypocrisy. Playing games of Venus that are written to serve only you, must be convenient.”
I tightened the corners of my mouth with a viced grin and took my shirt off. If he thinks he can crucify me, that id burst into flame from showing myself half naked. I took my shirt off. I knew Lee was somewhere off in the mansion with Marcia, too reserved and shy to make a move on her cause he never would with me.
I didn’t want to argue with him, debate was out of the question in this game of chess. Instead, I said,
“I have never abandoned Venus, maybe I have been feeling tense lately because i’ve seen what others are capable of. And it’s necessary to have Judgement in place to structure that. But I’ve never lost sight of Love.”
Janus replied, “your wrong. Venus only can relay flashes of what love is. Where you’re heading, she’s far behind us now. And clearly you’ve failed Judgement. You can’t even properly negate time enough to figure out why you get off by Lee rejecting you. You should take off your pants. And Christine, modesty and grace are far more impressive than mathematical plots and fictions. Clinging to your veil, thinking separation from Man will keep you from sorrow.
You have to swallow back sorrow as if it were the only thing that would save you from the Abyss. Stripping you of your irreverent reward systems by stripping you of your sleeping flesh. Take your pants off.”
The room went from feeling wombishly compact into a brisk vastness. Even the temperature of the lighting, once small and golden now splinters off into rainy, amber glares. Lean pieces of light traveling like baby serpents inside a dark ocean. Horripilation scaled my aging legs, suddenly I felt an excess of memories and thoughts disperse into a quiet vacuum.
Alabaster thighs, bare and patient stood in quietness. White clay slowly melting in the embrace of his absent touch. The dream is dead, my fantasy has been granted.
Janus across the room, his face rests into a murderous calm. His kind eyes looking at my body as he marks the date of a wars ending as he sends me to the Abyss of sex.
His voice cutting like knives made from calcified milk, sharp blades of doves wings pulsing in the declivities.
“Now pour that glass of water over your face. And as you do it say, “Atah.”
My face dripping in this lukewarm water. He directed me to the couch where he was sitting. I was thinking that he would finally see me deemed worthy beyond the veil, for him to touch me. He was still fully dressed. Ironed pants and black loafers. But instead he had me lay down on the couch and gestured to spread my legs slightly apart to the missionary.
He left the room without explanation and as soon as he reemerged from whatever deep corner that briefly consumed him, I saw like a confused red flare in a dream, I saw on his left arm a huge brown owl perched and calm. He walked back over to the couch and kneeled beside me, the owl has not flinched.
“Christine, you are the one who instructs Venus, you are the one who offers strategies for Judgement.” Janus then placed the owl between my legs. The sumerian creature stayed still though his wings fully expanded, between my thighs, beneath two sanguine eyes I felt a warmth.
This letter is my horse I ride, looking up at the ceilings ludibrium, holding the reins that swim like wire from behind a mirror. I’m so dizzy in a dream kingdom I made my home.
The return of the repressed, His name is the furrows! And his furrows suggest, whatever is coming is coming from below my dreaming nest!
I have no loved ones, I am perfect for you. Belonging, I can step in the fire. I won’t rip out my teeth or break the mirror, I’ll suck the sap from the barking wolves. For whom my rock shines, my blood runs silent and I let you take me to divine!
I was so lonely when he died, emptiness drinking of my mind and all of the green ended in an accidental, clumsy fall. It was then when I first shook hands with a King named extension. My initiation plays and rolls me on my back, the first thing I remember are my eyes watering over, I was only able to see black bodies and a bright blue orb that turned out to be a blue stone blurred in my sight.
Blue hemimorphite is exchanged back between black, mechanical arms. They assemble paganly into two lines facing another with a furrow separating them. Pelvis’ straddling a limpid substance in the air. Their feet spin dancing on soil, talons tease to rip my flesh, use my ribs as piano keys! And I fall in the cunt ditch, under their exchanging arms, between two lines of ash-men. Falling in my cotton sheet, the black limbs above me are my muzzle and my hands try to escape the white womb in the furrow.
The prologue whose cheeks are painted of a girl clown laugh at my awakening! I reddened the womb so I could lift the sheet from my eyes, and I see there is no one left here around me. Black jolting elbows escape my peripherals like traces of ink running away, the prints of their once electric feet mock and mark its residue in a still air.
Slender warm come here, mmm a blue rock was left in the divet! I bend down to palm the stone of Imagination. Bent over, my hands to the ground then began my legs to lift themselves silly and clap together. My hands clenched the rock to keep the air from raping me up into the wind. That invisible girl clown, laughing and fading. My hands fastened to the ground as my legs flagged the green storm sky but because my blood runs silent I am not gone with the wind yet.
An overhead shot of that fast white thing fled from a storm’s vein, shooting an arrow of smoke, it sees my palmed hands like a seed, my feet sprouting toward it, my body is its turbulent handstand. Mount me as a long pewter sythe does to the land.
The sky stretched my legs and turned me beastly. It released me and my arms and legs snapped back to the ground and cursed me with quadrupedalism. Four limbed naked woman runs now, the gods tail inverted inside her back cunt, spliced and erect her spine knuckles out of her pale lunar flesh. Riding over the trammels of fire and coal whatever’s left of the land, it’s now apparent something unseen is seated on top of her.
Spinning and dancing I become one with the ash-men, kicking the rock in the fire burning blue and red. Spattering black saliva my moon breasts collect the dark specks, I shove my head in the flaming pit rabid.
A nameless phoenix, my neck jolts back into the mingled air, I shake my head like a dog with the hot rock between my lips.
My melting tears scream ‘here is Imagination! I give it to you god!’
The spirit takes my reign and it does not let it touch the ground, takes it from my lips and ascends fourth with the earth’s drumming sounds.
There is a knocking but it isn’t coming from my skull but at my door.
I almost fell on my face as I bowed to a golden knob, but instead it fit as a perfect pearl in my palm. Cold air knocked a different reality into me and brought me my sister who’s now standing in front of me. I stared blankly out of the blinding pale doorframe, I forgot it was my day to babysit my baby niece.
“Mag you look freezing! Did your heat go out?” My sister said.
“No it didn’t.” I locked the door after she barged passed me dragging the kid behind her. I couldn’t hear anything she was saying but she looked frazzled, kept staring at her orangish blonde split ends that were sticking up. She pulled off the scarf that was wrapped around my head, I didn’t even know I was wearing it.
“Seriously, why are you dressed like that? It’s like a hundred degrees in here!” She staggered to the thermostat and then started arguing with herself that it was broken and then turned back to me seemingly yelling at me for something. Quickly rubbing the ash off my face I started to stare at my legs standing, confused.
She was waiting for me to say something so I told her that I wanted her to have a good time, with whatever she was planning to do and that I would take good care of Sadie while she was gone.
“I will see you in two weeks so be good for mommy and aunt Mag.” She turned to me then and chimed, “Three year old appropriate movies only!”