Only this sun star heart realm
it's tears bless us over a glittering ageless age
like diamonds buried deep within the windows of the
skull
Composite wealth shitting
on aspirations of blessed moonlight's rage
and the body of Nuit blanketing the night sky
Veils slipping over the crust of dusk
screeching in dire sweet death
let us burn paper
that suffocates the voices
of the tired and hungry
Dear SisterMoonChild,
we cannot fail your selfless sweet shelter
before the coming of day
the black sun of Khepera rising,
again
Let the deathly inhale toxins of past homes
but relieve in the bathing of moon,
while the privileged collect their sins and run,
shedding light on footpads
in silt and dirt
from the Potomac to the Euphrates
fearing beauty's judgements
fearing self,
the mirror, cracked and bleeding
self-loathing monuments
hope and tide from pull
and swing of moon, rise
slip and fade while cascading
over the empty temples gloom
the ebb and flow, in flux,
existence,
a conundrum to those still sleeping
a pun to this tired of breathing,
and bleeding
Eternity screams in the hearts of dusk to night
but love to dawn
in the peace of a new sun rising
The promise of a new beginning
- set us on fire -
free, thrushes’ birth
from my belly
into the velvet night
electrified
my ancestors cry with me,
my release,
embers of the campfire
calling me home
Money is a sharp knife
stuck deep in the heart
of the world's beautiful visions
innocence falls
rotting
in stinking chunks of violated flesh
from the bones of this dead philosophy
blinding six senses,
A most holy paradise exists,
here and now
Loving is a sharp knife
stuck deep in the heart
of the world's beautiful visions
parallel prying
into crates and carts
full of suffering tears
and heat fissions, fissures,
cutting like scissors into realities,
slither away
and let my mind enter and bleed
like yours to heed our stories,
thneed our minds,
peel our kindly vibes
that vibrations find
in prison and slums
hopping over life like bums,
in streets and alleys,
childish 'till 34,
crying bitch 'till many more
Every generation of promising youth
are offered in ritual sacrifice
to the cold fears
of their parent's impenetrable
prisons of complacency,
years of tears and moonlight
cut the slimy existence of the perfect leaders,
but we purr,
hoping for more
than stealers
Like Black Death, the Great Hunger,
every burning of innocent souls,
how many more tears shed in vain,
in life,
in death,
rebirth
The mighty Phoenix shall rise,
eternal
running away with our attention and meaning,
but feel her moonlight princess kneeling
over our crippled body
wingspan picking us off to heaven,
rapturously kinship with her
upwards
We can't run,
so let us fly
She is love, precious Mother
she bats her eyelashes dim and spider-like
watching us as we slumber
off into the moonlight of dusk and sky
Slaves controlling one another in white efficiency
breeding ever new forms of domestication for lazy
minds
Freedom is just another logo
sold in their suburban malls
but we all see,
we all pray to someway,
but you can't sway with parking lots or street tar
only the guitars in the solo
of perpetual undead
Let us fly as great blue herons,
upon the lofty wings of owls,
upon backs of eagles scrying thunder,
let us become one
with antiquated raiment
Kill the last green growing tree
and celebrate its commodity,
by eating plastic cake
in uniformity
Defillibrated laments,
don’t bend in our tents
of nighttime
blindness is in fashion,
dollar signs as eyes
minds only know passion
because deep thoughts now a lie
thinking thought is death
to the dead
to the living
to the spirit
Charon awaits,
skeletal teeth, rotted and grinning
blinking not fed up of led and shillings in soul
pit,
baron stakes, mental feeds,
spotted and continuing
continuing to open the doors of nighttime rituals
barons orders to steal our princess,
leaking incest,
like sweat
in the sauna of a new day
Take away spots and acne of online needs
the feeds refreshing and beheading our human taint
a night illuminated by the glow of black fire
blazing
The night is wise,
she embraces the secrets
of our psychotic midnight ramblings
the keeper of all truths
the great poet and poetess
the most holy heart
All of our vain egos gush with excited offerings
while the Earth dies and we adore ourselves
It would be
our vain egos,
but it’s ours,
which means
it
is
not
just
ego.
© Bhakti Williams Brown, Susan Marie, Dian Isis,
Elissa Feit and Albert Brown 2015
