Screams, Rants and other Poetic Devices.
There Used to Be Magic, Part Two: Business Sigils

This is part two of a (at least) three part poem detailing my views of magic.

There used to be magic,
it didn’t seem so long ago.
I’ve been kept in a haze
and fed fumes and subliminal commands for breakfast.

I gazed into a mirror and saw it flash with colors,
violence wantonly displayed. My reflection lay behind it all,
a silent ghost watching horrors unfold.
The only thing to calm my nerves were…

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There Used to Be Magic, Part One: Faeries Trapped in Cages of Glass

This is part one of a (at least) three part poem dealing with magic.

There used to be magic;
it doesn’t seem like it was long ago.
We used to see the churnings of the universe,
we used to understand the flow of things.

A man took a fairy and stuck her in a cage
made of glass, clear so he could see his prisoner die,
and hung her on the wall, so he could always watch.
At the flick of his finger, she…

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Stay Asleep, Sheeple

I’ve been told quite often
that I am asleep. But if I were,
would I not also dream,
as there is no nights which are dreamless,
but only ones in which we refuse to remember dreams?

The waking world is not that at all.
It is in this state that I sleep, unaware that I swim
in the medium of prophecy,
as the fish knows not of the water surrounding them.
Each moment chokes with symbology,
every fragment…

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Ha Ha!

Hyenas cackling at the midnight star,
the drunken madness of idiot gods
blind to the conditions of what surrounds them.
Let them revel in hedonistic pleasures,
let wine spill from their lips onto the floor,
let it spray onto the mirrors
into which Narcissus gazes.

Laughter is the element of all things great;
whether of joy or of sorrow,
to guffaw at the world is to control it.
Its own opposite,…

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Ghost Stories

We all love to be scared. The rush of endorphins

is a high we just can’t get enough of.

Though we thought we grew out of them years ago in the woods,

no one can resist a good ghost story.

Wait until it’s night, get real comfy, boys and girls.

Turn off all the lights and gather ‘round the campfire,

and sitting in the luxury of a padded Lay-Z-Boy throne,

listen to the horrors to watch out for…

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Ode to the Bearer of the Sweet Fruits of the Void

Ode to the Bearer of the Sweet Fruits of the Void

This is my first working with automatic writing. At the breaking of dawn, after a night of strange drugs, even stranger people, and dancing and laughter, Eris took me over and that egotistical bitch decided to write a poem to herself through me. 

This poem is dedicated to my muse, the avatar of Eris and the sweet chaos she holds in her heart. 

I hear the beat of the universe

stomping down with…

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Violet Nails

It’s odd to see the painted nails,

violet with the violence of masculinity

vibrant with the energy of a fully erect phallus,

holding onto my cock

every single time I go to pee.

I’m an actor, baby!

I gotta perform my own gender,

day-to-day. Gotta keep the hegemony in place

with pants and suits and

the subjugation of half the race.

The best actors, though, are the ones that know how to improvise,

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Mango Queen

The mangoes were on sale at the grocery store

and I couldn’t help but buy them up.

Soon the Mango Queen come rushing back to me,

her image hazy in the sepia glow that nostalgia brings.

I couldn’t forget the sweetness of that mango queen,

how she flowed down your chin with a bite,

juicy, succulent, rich, and ripe.

­­­­I could never forget how I dreamed of the mango queen

and those distant lands…

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Not Naked Enough

Though we are naked under our clothes,

nudity is an onion, the soul it’s root keeping it together.

To be truly naked is to have the meat stripped from our bones.

To be truly naked is to embrace thanatos.

The soul must be unconstrained,

from time, from meatspace,

to be free of all clothes. Until then,

we cannot be naked enough.

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Hymn to Eris

Dedicated to the muse, my avatar of Eris’s bliss

Though I knew as Eris, the sweet tree where chaos blooms,

she begged to be known as Ereshkigal today.

Ebony as sin itself, she was shining obsidian in the sun,

warm to the touch and pleasing to the ear.

If you listened hard enough, you could hear the cacophony her very atoms sang.

Though together they were still, one choir of macrocosmic cohesion,

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