Tattoo

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Tattoo

I think I might have a tattoo.
It is the color of perfume and ashes,
With shades of smoke and holograms.
As cold as intergalactic space,
It follows me wherever I go.
It is even bigger than I.
It is as big as the sky.
It wraps me up in its arms.

It was the only way I could change my skin,
Because I wouldn’t want to change myself.
Anyway, I know, in better days,
I have already been a butterfly,
With a velvet body,
With eyes which have seen,
Into the darkness of Morpheus, God of Dreams,
Into the darkness of Yama, the Slave of Shiva,
Into the darkness of time, the minion of Death,
Into my own darkness, my own magic,
My own metamorphosis.

I’m pretty sure I’m an old soul.
I have done this before.
I can almost remember being inside my own tomb,
My visage taken away,
My blood no longer sticky and thick,
Turned into the salt water from the early oceans,
The frozen water of the rings of Uranus,
Of Neptune, of Nefilim, the mythic twelfth planet,
Turned into air,
The energy of a 9.6 earthquake.

The smell of sex was no longer sweet or salty.
Not the smell of sweat.
Not the sound of moaning,
Nor, the voice of animals rushing to Carnival,
Strands of wet hair,
Confetti rain on the wrong side of the moon.
When I returned from death,
I was brighter than heaven.

But, oh, I keep forgetting,
You, who have a heart of innocence,
The eyes of a child,
You have never been dead.
You do not remember the mysteries of Death’s mask,
Dancing plumage, blind muteness, introspective infinity,
Interconnected potential,
The unbound opportunity for realization,
Out of which anything can manifest,
And, only devotion survives.

Right now, no matter how close we are to the edge,

We are on the side of our created awareness.
Now, time is more than just an angle of perspective.
It dictates our every moment.
It tells Orpheus when he is allowed to sing.

Since we are always in Death’s hands anyway,

Eternity is going to taste like anything he says.
It seems to me, a tattoo isn’t much.

Life is like a stranger, living inside us.
Every day it tells us a bit more of its story.

Anyone can have a tattoo,
But, your sleep is yours alone.
No one else can live your nightmares.
Your dreams cannot be dreamt,
By anyone but you.
Not even by your lover.

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Vortex

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Vortex

Turning away from the world,
I wondered instead,
Who am I?
A woman made of mud,
Of sparks and space,
Of gender and race,
Of mistakes,
And, faults,
And, miserable flaws,
Holding my breath,
And, seeking the stars.

But, I found, inside of myself,
My own internal sun,
The one,
Around which I spin.
I met with my own,
Self serving ego,
Center of my solo system,
Holding everything together.
And, my unexpected, yet inevitable,
Eternal shadow,
Cold, bold,
Extension of the void,
Survivor from long before my beginning,
Arising out of dark fears and anger,
Closest to the demon earth,
With an interest, only, and eternally,
In the protection of my deep, limbic being,
The one connected,
By fang and claw,
By tooth and jaw,
To self-preservation,
To immediate satisfaction,
To instant gratification,
To whispers of rageing determination,
To the present,
To mob mentality,
To the crushing force,
Of gravity,
To the rushing force,
Of the movements of time and life.

I have found that I am,
The vortex of reality.
Everything enters me,
Stirs me, disturbs me,
Becomes subject to my interpretations,
My imitations,
My alterations,
My infinite complications,
My folding, origami replications,
My inspections, my reflections,
Four dimensional fluctuations,
Kaleidoscopic machinations,
Colossal, multifaceted limitations,
And, of course,
My centrifugal force,
Which keeps me going.
Going ’round.
Never lets me down.
Doesn’t even let me frown.

Whether I’m losing or winning,
I am always spinning.
I am self-centered,
Self-composed,
Self-encompassed,
Self-contained, trained,
Constrained,
And, I am really entertained,
By the tricks of my memories,
Dreams and desires,
And, the rollercoaster of my fluctuating reality.

But, just like this poem,
I keep on going.
Full of passion,
Full of laughter.
Always something,
I’m going after.
I fit into rhythm.
I fit into rhyme.
And, my kisses,
Aren’t forgotten,
Because they really,
Are sublime.