[[miiah]]

swarthy blue skin, third eyes, demonic heads, multiple hands - fingers that can count till the moon, prophets, shamans, madmen, snake-charmers, radiant buffaloes - my land has all of these things & more

in a land where the Gods Themselves be dancers what then can be said about the people, flailing arms and girdles both - pelvic and pectoral, thrusting and twirling, swaying and sashaying.

The oldest whore, the most interesting bore,
the learned prostitute and the dickhead,
i've had them all, yes, at one time or
all at once
i cease to remember (for)
other thoughts seize me



"the truth is forbidden and my lies will not salve you"
but
what was your question?


what did you once ask me
was it about spades & hearts
toad-blooded darts
light shafts piercing my barren broken flesh
they've cut me up from the inside
into shards of mirroring glitter


your breath escaping our kisses
that's all i remember
you still linger on my tongue
that too is all i remember
for now [stop]


but the feel of our skin
i'm loosing that [pause]- numbness (you bastard) wins heroically
go bash the cymbals
anoint his head in purple symbols of a warrior victorious


my glorious blood stays red for you
tomorrow it go blue
[slowly] i've lost, [slower] i'm lost
[pause]
[observe silence, even]

behead me
(or)
give me head
it don't matter now
I'm already dead

...

photocredit: Addie

"Krim's son"

And like the sun rises and the sun sets, naked in a fire of red sky, I too was born here and will exit here naked and covered in blood, in a sticky shawl of red. Such a star am I (too).

~ an extract from Pinker Panther Banter

Trois Questions

"What is your oldest memory", she once asked me, even as she coiled herself around me, "of me?"
The hands of lovers are more than that; have you noticed. Watch, the next time, you have lovers before you, or you are with your lover, see how more than hands the hands of lovers are. Notice, if you will, how they hold each other, the way they rest and stroke and caress, soothe and hurt, and once again restore love and comfort. Lovers-hands are dancers all unto themselves.

"Why do you go away from me", she once asked me, even as she unlatched her jaws to swallow me entire, "so abruptly, so unkindly?"
The waves dance, have always danced and will always dance. To their own tune. The moon sings, as if in silent Gaelic, and there is a joyous stirring in the heart of the ocean. On those nights, I think endlessly of you, and sleep is banished. But the moon sings every night, so every night I think endlessly of you. Now, I am weary and must fall into repose.

"What is the most worthy thing, the most precious trinket", she once asked me, even as I went into her, "that you have gleaned from existing on this planet this time around?"
There is nothing left to learn from men. But, make cats your Gods again. And sit with flowers in your lap. If everybody was high all of the time, there would only be rejoicing and man would transcend or stumble into bliss. It is in letting go that much is gained. And if nothing else, serve love. Follow shamans and madmen, because you may atleast have a day of joy than decades upon decades of misery and grief flailing about within society.

or