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Ren Sturgis Jul 9
I dream of leathered men, I dream of you, touching me, ******* me, loving me.
Hold me in your clutch, dominate me, make me yours.
Your voice like velvet, and your body like diamond.
Cut me, mark me, I am your canvas.
I am your art.
The cruelest artist with a delicate touch.
I beg of you.
I whimper in pleasure.
More please.
"Be a good boy for me" "yes sir" on my knees. Complete submission.
Take me to space.
Make me forget all that came before you.
Jordan Gee Nov 2021
Heaven is an Eye fixed atop a triangle
embossed along panes of stained glass
in a burst of color and
embedded on a transom above
an arrangement of young Amish girls -
one of them flipping me the bird.
white bonnets shining inside the dark street
and red reflections of the night.

God is in a mirror
reflected across one thousand other mirrors
held by a single hand and adjusted thereby
so that the light would be refracted through
a bent corridor in time
bending and extending through
far away dimensions that
i don't even know about.

Beauty lies in the 6 skinny trees
i water on the fifth day
drinking coffee when i see
one thousand rose petals drying
like the shores of the salton sea
and the six trees like a
hexagram of six dragons
like Heaven over Heaven in the sky.

one time I saw this image in my mind
when i closed my eyes
a vision of fire shaped like a phoenix
burned across the red horizon of my mind.
beyond the black behind the lids of my eyes
there is a red horizon over inner city deserts,
bird beaks buried in the sand.

I must honor the body’s lived experience
yet not give it any credence over Spirit.
its like i was being taken over and consumed
by a Greater Being.
it pressed all my memories up against hard glass.
different angles through extra spectrums -
it was raining hard prisms
It was like laser beams everywhere.
like heaven over heaven in the sky.

I was ripping off layers like a nest
of ten rattlesnakes tangled up in braided rope.
now there are magnets that float around inside my head.
there are times i don’t know if I’m doing the thinking - or the listening -
or whose doing the talking but
there are magnets floating in my cerebral spinal fluid
and they are electric and they are on fire.
and if i only had binoculars then I could see the singularity,
the gift of eternal life at the eschaton.

Heaven is the wind that lifts me up by the insides.
i  relax so deeply into the present sometimes
i forget to breathe -
were it not for the magnets inside my spine
pulling me toward the singularity and
the eschaton and the Bright Lights.

there are such amazing playlists on spotify
artists and genres i’ve never even heard of.
thank God someone figured out what
these emotions sound like.
benedictions in southern pennsylvania
on the JBL charge 4
and i think i’m starting to accept
that life in the earth plane is
a baptism by electric fire.

Glory be to God in the highest for
sending me His messenger
winging words made of silver helix
strands of vibrating concept complexes
so the mercury can bring the sulfur to the salt.

I throw my head back and laugh like a junkyard dog.
i’ve been searching for the philosopher’s stone for years!
i just called the chase by other names
and searched for it where i thought it was to be found,
where they told me it would be:
court street and MLK blvd, Newark, NJ,
trap house, Grant St, Hazelton, PA,
the American Club, red light district, Agana, Guam.
somewhere in the Pacific or a fist full of wax bags
from my partner ****’ down pembroke outside bethlehem, PA
and a ten pack of clean B and Ds, small gauge,
waiting for me on his kitchen table.
Heaven over Heaven in the sky.

I checked my phone over three hundred times today.
mostly this is a wretched habit of unconscious hand but
quite often the Everywhere Spirit gives me personalized
messages of rapid ascension via all the “woke” social media handles.
there is a fire inside my heart and it burns me from the inside.
sometimes it opens so wide you can fit the whole world in there
and not lose any elbow room.
and the magnets carry me to the tallest pedestal in the
sky where everyone can hear and
i tell them everything is going to be ok.
i’ve seen the bad path and i’ve walked it
and God placed magnets in my blood and
i made it back alive and all the church bells are ringing.

the Holy Ghosts of our ancestors rejoice for the
cutting of the silver chords so they can
all fly away home to heaven.
and through the grave yards that lost their church bells with the churches
i walk with bells in my hands and i ring them so
that all the ghosts can go home.

we had a heart opener one night.
we all sat around the floor and opened our hearts for each other.
they opened so wide that it rained electric fire to
where everyone could see it and that makes
for a good memory.
but nothing is as it seems,
nor is it otherwise
and my heart can suddenly slam closed like
the cellar door of leatherface’s texas prairie
subterranean basement lair.
and i’ve been there before
but the fire in my heart shines upon the faces
of the all devil’s dark armada
and they don’t scare me anymore,
such is the brilliance of the flame,
and such is the pull of the magnets god placed inside my blood.

its been more than ten winters since court street, newark.
but to this day i think sometimes about
that frozen cat lying by the curb.
stiff from all the jersey winter night prowlin
freezing up it’s blood.
my heart was closed that day,
hiding all my fire.
but if I saw that cat today, why…
i would open my heart so wide that
winter would be no more and
all the frozen hearts of our fathers and our mothers
would burst wide with such love that
the Earth would tremble and all the
neutron stars would shoot across the
red horizons of our mind
and the light of heaven would be
reflected in the mirrors of our eyes.
and this light would be so bright that
all the archangels and the devas would
be out of a job.

God is in the pinprick of light
fastened to the back of the
long tunnels of my eyes.
God is in the space after the release
of my preoccupation with the opinions others hold of me
God is in the street light shining on an
amish girl flipping me the bird.

By Jordan Gee
those who to Earth from Heaven came.
annh Dec 2020
𝙶𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝-𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎,
𝙲𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔,
𝙿𝚞𝚗𝚔-𝚊-𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚗.

𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛,
𝚂𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚗, 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚜:
|𝕬𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖍𝖞 (𝕻)𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖊𝖘 𝕵𝖚𝖉𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙|

𝙰 𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐-𝚊-𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚎,
𝙰 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚑, 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚢.
𝙾𝚒!



𝙸 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢’𝚜 𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝’𝚜 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔, 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚕𝚎, 𝚠𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚏𝚠𝚊𝚢.
‘Daith’, ‘conch’ and ‘nosegay’ describe a variety of body piercings. Historically, a nosegay (in the small-bouquet-of-flowers sense of the word) was either hand-held or attached to clothing to fend off disease and plague.

‘I had choosen the path of the black sheep
rather than that of the unicorns and puppies.’
- Magenta Periwinkle, Cutting Class
Red Dec 2020
One day I hope to put these feelings down in writing
To find a way to simplify the way these carry me
The smell of worn leather and pine trees in December
A cold wind and a creek half frozen
The line of trees that separate my house from the wilderness
And how some days I wish I could disappear in there with you

We would hunt and forage
forge a path of our own
Play an out of tune guitar around a smoldering fire
We would live in the trees and hide in the grass
You would braid my hair and we would dance barefoot in a clearing
To the sound of cicadas and leaves underfoot

I love, I miss, I want you.
I hope for you.
More than I will ever be able to tell you.
The smell of my leather hunting jacket made me emotional for a future I will never have. Those beat up leather riding boots in my closet make me want to walk until I disappear.
trf Mar 2020
sewing time together,
we scribe our narrative,
your lace stitches leather,
like a seamstress.

failures don't forget me,
i'm their stone to engrave,
designed imperfections
and a chiseled face.

close enough to notice,
constellations are yarn,
unthreading in the distance,
these days seam apart.
E Bhrèagha Feb 2020
Teal like aluminum foil,

Bleeding gums, spitting blood


Red as lipstick stains

Left on paper cups of coffee,

Melting the way chocolates do


Cracked knuckles from

Too many seaside winters,

Rich cocoa skin like leather


Mouth filling with soap bubbles,

Teal like synesthesia.
kevin Sep 2019
Tired eyed
But so excited to be here
Kissing in a parking lot
Like you promised
Over the phone
Sleeping in shifts
Playing video games
And exploding kittens
Until the sun rises
Braiding your hair
Into a woven crown
A pile of snakes atop your head
Curled up under my duvet
Listening to the rain
Pound on the ceiling
Listening to my heart
Pound on my skin
Drowning
In my old leather jacket
Your shining face flecked with mud
From a long wait
That has never been more worth it
Inspires by an old leather jacket I bought from Goodwill.
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