Red Dreams And Razorblades

Imagine, I see the hero-figure/ 
hear the wind on the window/
feel it cold on my feet/ 
I’m frightened/ on my own again.

Christmas... 
Christ was born on the cross!  
Everywhere these grey, sick, twisted faces/ 
grotesque masks, 
down every street you walk.

Where is the salvation?

I’ve asked this question so many times, 
it reverberates in my skin, 
in the sky, through the thin walls 
of this treacle room/ 
like an unholy, howling mantra: 
an indefinite, tentative OM...  
Create, maintain, destroy. 

Create, maintain, destroy? Are we doomed 
to repeat this pattern ad infinitum?

Why?

Once I thought I swooped into the heart of God, 
like a bird falling from on high, 
but it may just have been psilocybin psychosis
or touching into someone else’s dream.

The ghoststeps and lullabyes are in my bones: 
their voices, like the dribbling away of sand 
from a shaman’s hand; 
and out in the hall a discarnate being 
unravels in black light.  

I lose the connection to my body/ 
it pulses weakly, on its own.

And now, I’m coasting over the city skyline: 
far below, scrabbled in the corner of a room, 
with a fistful of paintbrushes, 
a small boy is crying.

I am numb, 
sucked in by flashes of astral blue: 
Abraxas is crouched over me, 
whispering incantations 
and blowing pictures into my eyes...

the stormclouds in my father’s face/ 
the razorblade in my mother’s hand.

Abraxas touches me:  
his hand inscribes a pentacle on my forehead/ 
a stab of steely ice in my solar plexus. 
I burn, I melt, I die a little.

The mist plays on my tongue,  
I must have more.  

Heavily, I suck on a cigarette/
drown down the feeling/ 
struggle to obliterate the silence... 
but I falter; 
and the silence turns against me. 

An unseen hand writes 
upon the sheeted mirror,
traces out a blood red truth 
in the slash of a razorblade
out of our dreams
we will all be unmade

I cut myself away from me
in the name of freedom, 
but ended up chained and bound.

These ribbons round my wrist, 
cut and burn and twist, 
but I am numb...

I feel nothing.

I want to become a machine,
a well-oiled, functioning, unfeeling machine:  
I’m sick of stumbling,
wish to sleep no more. 

I’m a beggar on Midnight Street.

See these hands?  
They are blue-white, bloodless lard. 
I hold them out: my eyes pleading.  
See these rib bones protruding? 
I am hungry.  

No-one will feed me.

I don’t want death,  
I don’t want rebirth. 

I want Brahman: 
perfection, freedom and love. 

All I’ve got is 
embarrassment and cold draughts, 
chains and alienation.

I want flight, perfect flight.