Rather than giving you all a complex explication on how to read the sky let me make it simple and spare you the convoluted geometric voodoo on how I make predictions. The Stars tell me this is not going to be a happy day for Trump and may well be catastrophic. Mark these words and let's see what happens. It's a very big bad time between the 20th and 21st of January. Very!

then the full corn, in the ear.

¿Has the seed faith evidence,
made the dedicated monk

useless, due to evolving knowledge,
horticultural returnings to old knowns,
bringing hope to survivalists,

intent on living on Earth, warless

for the ever after this?

No, fighting
for a faith that must be kept,
pristine, clean, cleared of science logic,
such has left all reason bleeding,
use the rags remaining from the old
folded and put away worlds
in storys held
stuck in the stars,
so we may remember, lest we forget.

Those who knew nothing as we ought
to have been knowing by Christmas,
all are forgiven, or nothing is true,
self-evidently…

washed, cleansed from perceived stains,
white as new-fallen snow…

Deep Mind white room cinema effect,
preceding the ever after this…

you be come this far, alone.
You be edging up on after all's

been said and done, what you did's
been said to have done nothing,

nothing, thus
nothing done wrong,
nothing done to no effect.

It's a terrible thing,
I know a beautiful young woman who harms herself with a razor.

Butter and toast.
It's a terrible thing.

We kiss a lot as she bleeds.
And yes, oh yes,
It's a terrible thing.

Blood flows down her breast onto the soft curves of her ivory torso
To mix with my sweat and raw kisses.
It's a terrible thing.
The white marble goddess arches towards my mouth
Stone wheels sharpen the blade.
Her lips - red stains.
It's a terrible thing.

Blood in spiderwebbed rivulets fall.
She burns a smile like talons into my skull.
I'm bought and sold in the house of a tortured Venus.
Alley of torment and ecstasy.
Dracula licks her jewel box glitter and drinks her till whiskey blind.
A ******* mad hatter.
It's a terrible thing.

Please stop, I say heavy with longing.
Which drives her on as one wound begets another.
In this laboratory of sanguine obsession.
My voice - musical bones like xylophone tones.
And oh My God.
This filler that cleaves to emptiness.
This finger of the void - black angels.
Her grin upon me like the Ta in ******.
A merchant of desire whom I love darkly.
This ponderous monk black night of red children falling from mother.
To be savored.
I dive into her red.
My mouth wild cherries and rushing fire.
I am dragon's teeth and tongue lapping.
All cleavers and kisses.

She smiles spreading in a bed of red gauze.
We are good people.
And oh yes, my sweet.
It's a terrible thing.

Needled fingered hematologists prepare our dinner. Her name, Mercy, all body candy, tattooed with a snake ****. Her ******* pierced with rose paved sparkles and ******* stabbed with bat shaped studs. Nurses sharpen knives while quack doctors tend to little plastic dolls and blood bathers with crossed femurs in hospital beds where they are cultivated as condiments. Between the umbilicus of limbo, and the theater of cruelty the rational world remains a derelict void. Welcome are hallucinations that abolish reason, that give meaning to blood shot gazing eyes beyond the limits of sanity, where madness cannot be opposed in a world of tug a war monsters and gods. Lyrical voices of demons shoot through Mercy's nerve membranes, while a marching army of squat shadows move like flames in a vacant lot of burning violets. Monsters groan. A snake head eats its own tail in graves of scattered voices and speechless tongues. Arteries pulse vermillion, naked and wanton waiting to be pierced for sanity's release in a lyric of dread's desire. A tidal force lifts a dirigible from hell in a fountain of blood while Jesus has a cheeseburger moonstruck in torn *******. A spreading bride dissolves hoop-armed around a formless shadow hallucinating her beloved killers foot stones kiss. Mercy Kneels on the Dias subserviently. She is sumptuous and a willing betrothal in a gauzy white gown. Happily, headed for death, she disrobes and centers herself on the long knotty table spreading wide smiling, as if a performing dancer, a naked contortionist in a shadow that flickers. Her knees bent to her chest, ******* heaving, her red rose toes pointed, feet arched. She is ready for the final churning and dispatch. Vampires with moonish eyes crouch on all fours like ancient bushman with black wings like hovering capes to eat her with little teasing bites and licks before kissing hisses and insinuating their bifurcated tongues followed by needling punctures that look like spider holes with reddish volcanic mounds and a leaking web of blood rivulets on her pink primrose pudenda "blood on a sugar cube" mouths, feeding mouths, feeding mouths, licking each other's claret tongues mixed with foot kissing adorations and pinkish toes red blooms and  mad mumblings about the grace of Satan while burning black sabbath candles and incense, uncrossing themselves in cosmic Goetic rituals during devotional masturbations and copulations to give thanks and pay homage for fear that their god would take their girl away, their lovely girl food dressed in hemoglobin crystals, their sweet bleeding lover at fangs point, their peaches and cream, robe of blood and starve them.
Vampires are like the rest of us, hunger always wins, hunger for beauty, hunger for love, attention and shelter, hunger for every ******* thing. The vampires wept tears of gratitude licking torn sumptuous flesh like wild cats on the Savana. The pain of their bites excited Mercy, oh it hurt so, while they filled blood goblets of her, weeping and tumbling downwards in her honeymoon crypt like a spooling galaxy as they ate her belly, throat, eyes, and **** with their switchblade kisses. Mercy drugged on ketamine pushed passed the unendurable limits past limitless pain, like a burning witch laughing thinking in fractured clouds, and hot *** heaping ******* at the site of her depraved condition before sinking into an impenetrable dark water labyrinth of death. Her lips glossed black, the color of the grave, her hair dyed red and purple, her thighs and belly trussed in white gauze by ladies in waiting. Her areoles scorched and punctured as incense holders. Vampires coalesce, with fangs and ravaging kisses, biting Mercy like wild hyenas with panicked raw mouths of red saliva diamonds. Mercy gushes blood like a red river banquet, chained and strapped, legs stirrup wide, her feet beautifully arched and just so, glistening for fiendish kisses. In a candlelight ritual she is copulated by both sexes and fed upon. Mercy laughs like a loon screaming as she is lapped up by the wicked gift of ravenous tongues. Half devoured she emerges, a blood perfume delirium. Mercy arches upward and writhes in a blistering frenzy. Her eyes glare like a tempest then go vacant in loop tee loops in and out of focus. Her mouth, a red licorice lipstick smudge, gapes like twisted wire and pierced blood-soaked lips. In a ghastly shriek Mercy's belly oozes while the very last of her falters. Mercy surrenders her remains in a last hideous lament. Her hair looks like matted steel wool, her nostrils wet with mucousy brine. Her eyes bulge from their sockets, while a single smoldering finger in flames still burns as if it is a candle. Mercy tumbles downwards like a spooling galaxy as they eat her belly, throat, eyes, *** **** and nibble on her toes while she lays prone on a worn blood-stained porcelain Dias and spreads wide exposing whats left of her innocent bottom and smiling like a bewitched demon.

You can't talk about love without talking about its absence, deceit, desire and perversions.
Despite Justines intention to live a virtuous and moral life
she repeatedly encounters debauched and depraved individuals who demean her in every sense of the word.

Justine is brutally and incessantly violated, yet always eager and docile with big ******* eyes like portals of magic.
Using lunar rituals and oneiric transmissions she masturbates incessantly in alley doorways while imagining being backdoored in a bathtub of oiled men - and time will not take that away.

A queen of pinups and a scape goat without a safe word
She is held hostage by desire interlocking her with a **** vampire
living in a stone-cold chamber who texted pitiful Instagram posts about beautiful scarification, the pleasures of narcissism and beauty that left her always feeling like her own undertaker.

How does it work to protect yourself from yourself in this bitter city of the mind where silver flies, pocked faces and little worthless pennies in knotted dreams hum into the cells of your mottled brain?

Aside from my love of women who own their sexuality and being the spawn of the solar phallus dragon and ***** **** of fire, you know mom and dad, let's face it a lot of people are pent up about ***, so anything illuminating on the subject and its various forms, perspectives, sensual aspects and subculture is nothing but a good thing unless of course you are a die-hard *****.

Broadly speaking marrieds and long-term couples grow bored with each other, and singles very often go without *** or even being touched for extended periods of time. In both cases it ***** and not in a good way. Many singles remain fixated on the idea of finding that special person to alleviate their sense of loneliness and many if not most marrieds remain starved for a bit of novelty and are understandably afraid to transgress for fear of the jealousy and pain of betrayal with the loneliness and insecurity it often brings. Of course, there are some who work hard to disown their sexuality all together as a solution.  I see this as a kind ****** & emotional suicide, a moral masochism if religiously motivated and crime against the self.  There is in fact very few of us who manage to find a way to have it all and have it that way most or all of the time. In other words, the entirety of our society has a baked in structure that creates a sense of pervasive despair about ****** desire, not to mention the immense suffering that comes with loving and not being loved back.

Speaking of moral masochism, I find it ironic that the clergy who are sworn to celibacy and outwardly kowtow to the most rigid repressive codes of behavior have been and remain appalling in their rampant *******.

Perhaps whats left is to be driven into a labyrinth of hermetically sealed shadows that incubate a kind of sensual theater of transgression and taboo where simply everything goes.
Well, this writer has lived in those shadows like many others and consequently decided to explore those dark corners both in relationships, and those interior grottos of self through mental construct phantasmagorias and the language of poetry to spotlight this web of pathogens built into the very scaffolding of our psyches and culture.
As a poet I dont want to mimic the ruling culture. I want poetry to be like good ***, as in novel or intimate or perverse or underground like a creepy girl with a little blood on her pigtails in a fluttering dress with great legs just asking for it.
Poetry in its frail orbit is often only seen through the lens of genteel romance, social justice, of documentary, of collective resistance, or perhaps the propaganda of some other public iconography, a kind of literary imperialism in its lock step with the prevailing dogma trend lines while *** remains oddly off the radar? How could that be with so many barking and yelping genitalia, talk about repression.
Is the poetic form collapsing like a drooping mouth from too much pretentious baroque gentility in mildewed assure skies and verdant fields? Has Pandora been dethroned, and stripped of her gloomy yet torrid box of troves?
No folks shes under our bed's, in our brains and DNA disturbing us while we try to avoid her primal groans, groans mind you that manifest in the shadows and then erupt into arguments, tears and the rip apart lives.   

The reason I write about *** is I'm in search of a sacred space where language serves the psyche without artifice, and that makes plain the difference between the conservative public conversation and true innerness of the intersectional shadow lands of self towards a better way to live.

"What the caterpillar calls the end of the world - The master calls a butterfly".
Richard Bach