I’m picturing these two deities
sharing a loft just off of Madison Avenue,
maybe near an F-train subway station.
Naturally, the neighbors are complaining
of glass shattering bleeding screams
and thick, throbbing scents of charred hair
penetrating the floors above and below
while Trent Reznor’s trademark chain in the breeze voice
blares “I WANNA ******* LIKE AN ANIMAL”
from some speaker system seemingly embedded
in the trembling walls turned all the way up to “*******.”

Opening the door to reprimand the two,
the landlord is shocked
to find thick, juicy molten stains
of red wine and blood pulsating a putrid perfume
akin to petrol mixed with cinnamon sweat
as shards of plates and glasses glisten
across the kitchen and living room
while the duo erupts
into a carnal carnival of frenzied roller-coaster screams
as Kali plucks out a rib of Dionysus to lick and gnaw
and while her runaway train hips derail against his—
he stuffs out a cigar against her shoulder
despite blindfolded eyes and ankles handcuffed
to the hissing oven
while she shoves shrooms dipped in acid
down his throat
simultaneously sniffing the remaining white powder rocks
from under his nose.

The burning wild eyes of both beings slam
against their skulls--
exploding pupils cartwheel with each ******.  
The landlord cries, tears teetering the steak knife's edge
of maniacal hyena glass shattering laughter
and wrist-slitting sadness
until both beings ******
a mushroom cloud volcano blast piercing souls & hearts
bleaching away reality in a reverse black hole super nova
just past Park Ave.

sometimes some people
are so set in their ways
it seems like they're made of cement.

more than likely, these stone folks
will keep on rollin' the only way
they know how, seemingly embracing
their roles as the boulder to your Sisyphus.

on my mother's head
and she cried
but it wasn't about the lamp.
Though the ironic illumination
it provided isn't lost on me.

She's a 57 year old little girl terrified  
of talking to her sister
about their mother's looming death.  
She cowers at the power of her thoughts;
years of being bullied in school and belittled by parents
echo around in her darkening gray matter canyons
convince her to fold like tin foil.

If her tears were about the lamp
they wouldn't sound so heavy
when they fell.

Sync psych bike out peace in all around like a sound of light hitting your heart as if a kiss planted in the valves was watered in echoed raindrop drips skippin' beats boxing pulse super nova eardrum explosions in a nirvana chorus.