I'm trying to give order to things
perpetually a competition
between desire and necessity

necessity always wins
and desire grovels
like a renga
of grunts and incantations

a blur  
only born to be pulverized
and bleached
found in an archeological dig
in a lineage of bones
and smeared ash
martyrdoms
stained totems
of brittle ancestors
and jeweled coffers
under this necropolis of stars

we run head first
northward bound
where neuro grids
are instant evolution
for algorithms
of techno rationality
and hold close
south bound hearts of sentimentality
in a history of contingencies
interchangeable plot lines
like old sitcoms
with built in
canned laugh tracks
that **** us off
in the theater of atrocities

i am my
fathers fathers father
and the children of my children
weeping in labyrinths thunder
and swirling ethers
held down on the crucifix
of this spinning marble
that floats in ice black fires

blood fat armies
of knuckle dragging
infinitesimal bodies
fill tombs of pharaohs
and queens
extracted sarcophagi
from the Valley of the Kings
who ruled arcades
of brazen and terrified
praying chimpanzees
scattering and pierced
on hooks and flames
through their soft bodies
in a humanistic cinema
of tyrannies
and myth fiction horror

a history of suspicion
submits to
commodities of fetish phantasmagoria  
and festivals of atonement

at our end
Gods will
the big un-bang
a spectacular inhumanity
bashes us hard with   
Punchinellos bat
striking wounds and age
for the theater
fallen life
in voids and mountain peaks
till deaths wake
in the noisy silence
of forever

It is not lost on me that the meaning of much that I write is not well understood. Some say if you have to explain a poem its failed.
Id flip that around and say what of the readers responsibility to be culturally assimilated, familiar with surrealism and the writings of visionaries who constructed and promulgated altered realities some of which great movements of literature and culture are built upon, such as Artaud who inspires the subject of my darkly exotic intersectional writings.
Let it suffice to say then at the very least these poems are streams of conciousness that may give hints through a gleaning of suggestive images.

There is nothing eviler than self-deception, thinking one is doing the right thing blind to the misery it inflicts on others. This is the mark of every tyrant, monster, and autocrat always unconsciously projecting their own evil onto others, i.e. the otherizing, giving drama to the inner and outer war of fear and shame that plays out without relent in the racial, political, and ****** drama of our lives, like disowned sexuality that manifest as
out of control impulses which may carve out unwanted events and destinies.
My poems are logs of surreal mental constructs rooted in a labyrinth of shadows, where I destroy and create others and myself for the pure pleasure of it. There is nothing more bizarre than a good mental **** if not a ****** one and you know you may need that, unless you talked yourself out of it a long time ago.
I told her It's your dark part I love the most! No, not the dark part you're ignorant of; not at all, but the one you may have an inkling of when the ***** falls in love with her closet monster that excites, frightens and ignites, wanting what you should not want. 
The Satan she loves, the god of her dark heaven she wants to own and be owned by and drag out of the shadows for her own unspeakable special pleasures. Telling me how turned on she is;
She whispers …."If I could get you to **** me any way I wanted, I would start with you stalking me; waiting for the moment when I go for a jog, or out shopping on my bicycle all alone. Armed with a blow gun and a few tiny darts, it will be such a simple thing to follow me and put one in my back, scooping me into your van seconds later as I fall like dust."
He said I'll take you home to my cave and eat you like like summer melon on a shaking bed, red red red. She pulled him into her starving emptiness and said **** me slow placing his hands around her neck tenderly pleading and with dove like eyes whispering, "I'm so ready, please baby please"

To many young writers think a poem is just a story obsessed with making points
In this writers opinion anyway, this remains an immense failing of perception.
To me a poem is also about music i.e. the sounds of words as they interact with one another. In other words the sonic resonance of language as vowels interact. This becomes so obvious when one reads the most lauded poetry
EX
"Mule-bray, pig-grunt and ***** cackles"

"The suffocating aeons of spinning stone pillars"

"butter yellow blink mouth
like a strutting pigeon
squanders the language
of pebbles and seed"

Just sayin...…...

There are many gods before the great and terrible IT God
It doesnt know you and doesnt need to anymore than you need to know the name and address of each cell in your body.
The great and terrible IT is the last god you will ever know,
but you already know so many others. Those architypes emanate every minute bringing you both pleasure and pain in myriad forms and expressions.
Your DNA, Your beauty or plainness, your intelligence or lack there of, and your privilege's or restrictions are produced by their generative influence. You are not the product of your own will anymore than you get to decide your height or eye color but of a destiny written by the will of another conciousness. 
A god of persona
A god of inheritance
A god of communication
A god of home and family
A god  of children
A god of service work, health and restriction
A god of relationships and competition
A god of *** death and resurrection
A god of travel
A god  of profession
A god  of community
A god of spirit, dark pleasures, isolation and liberation.


Its not rocket science, just look around:

Mad Donna - Her Catechism:
She Offered Her Throat to a Choir of Teeth. A Mirror of Her Mythology: At once she is the elevation towards God and the descent towards Satan. The Madonna is an archetype of sacred suffering, and Mad Donna when sanctity snaps - when the divine mother claws through her own iconography, lipstick smeared over relics, nails chipped from clawing open heaven.

Prologue: The Peril of Invitation - Before You Open This Sacred Poem: They told me not to read it. Said ink like these stains deeper than blood. That once the words root themselves in you, you'll speak truths no one asked to hear and dream in languages that leave scorch marks. This is not scripture for saints. It won't cleanse you. It won't forgive you. It will break you open in all the places you were told to keep.

Genesis: In the beginning, there was want. And the want took form, and the form bled. She sings in languages no god dares answer, and every note is a shudder beneath my ribs. I bring her offerings - spit, shame, and a locket full of desire.

Mad Donnas Ritual Invocation: By salt and silence, I summon The One Who Named Me. By collar and covenant, by whip and holy wand I beckon The Lawful ****. By red light and gaze unbroken, I call The Witness. By blade and bloom, I conjure rosaries, stilettos and fish net *****, hungry blow jobs in back-alley boulevards with smeared lipstick and fog. I invoke Thee by ink, by bruise, by balm - By mouth and fractured moan, by leather rhythm and breath held taut, I summon The Bound Pulse. By absence aged to ache, I summon The One Who Made Me Wait. By gloves of ghost and reverence, I call The Cold Benediction. By kiss like smoke, I call The Saint of Strikes in tongues of want, and blotched mascara running and moaned in calling chants.
Take this throat I offer - willing. Take this want I carry - not to cage, but to worship.

She doesn't kneel because she's weak. She kneels because gravity calls her name. Each time she descends, the world adjusts its axis. She is the hymn they tried to censor from the psalms. She comes unlabeled, not divine, not ****** a mother-sized glitch in the system all blush and fury, blood in her breath - birthmark shaped like a *******, to sanctity, to every stained glass lie.

She wakes with velvet bruises forming constellations, maps only she can read. Liturgy inked across inner thighs, sung in whispers, in commands, in moans. Not silence - but obedience that chooses itself. She smiles bleeding saying "look" and she burns like ants on fire. Her gospel is submission scratched into stained porcelain bent bone and joint. She wears her ribbons like relics - desires of twilight like a crucifix. She is every Magdalene they redacted, every witch they kissed before the burning. She bends; it is not for mercy. It is ritual. It is a structure built from ache. It is salt on the tongue like sacrament.

Revelation: "Take me." She says in revelation. "Use me." Licking the floor in celebration. For every **** a psalm. Every kiss and **** a plea. Every leaking vein the Amen she never says out loud. She offers her wrists. Her mouth. Her throat. Her **** feet *** and wagging tongue not in shame, but as altar. She lets them write their names across her spine in *** spit and blood.

She doesn't look away remembering. Submission isn't collapsed but construction with the lights turned off. It's trust. It's theater. “It’s her hips shaped like a whispered prayer, and her feet curled like roots gripping the edge of longing.
Sometimes they cry when it's over. She doesn't. She gathers the sobs like souvenirs. She leaves the room and is grateful for the pleasures of disgrace.

They called her holy. They called her horror. She calls it catharsis. We call her Mad Donna. And none of us walked away untouched.
She kneels having chosen the blade and whip. And will not rise until every blood drenched tease has marked her hunger.
She made a chapel out of corsets and teeth; stained glass and balconies built from used condoms and a confession of shame then stretched her legs like she just got home.

I asked where the altar was, she pointed to her mouth and said "good - start here." She prayed in gags shaped like gurgles, groans and weeping. She taught me how to give it to her hard, so loud even guilt had to shut up.

Mad Donna - The Calling Cracked and Craving:
The Thirteen Apostles:

1. Saint Dom - The One Who Named Her and didn't ask. He gave her a name that tasted like crazy and stayed like smoke. She wore it. Choked on it. Cumed with it still in her mouth. Her altar - a rusty stage. Her relics - broken mirrors and bitten tongues. Her worshippers - girls with fists in their pockets and men who mistake shame for devotion. "Blessed are the starved, for they shall feast on truth and call it ruin."

2. Saint Lecher - The One with the Collar Leather and laws. He said bow like a vow. She knelt - not because she had to, but because he knew what to do with silence. Her altar - a bathtub full of spoiled perfume. Her relics - wilted garters, corsets stiff with tears. Her congregation - the lovers who stayed too long and forgot how to leave. "Blessed be the discarded, for even ghosts need chapels."

3. Saint Voyer - The One with the Camera, He never touched her. He only watched. Red light. Open legs. He said, "hold still" and she didn't blink for hours. Her altar - a porcelain statue of herself. Her relics - hollowed eyed dolls with scattered limbs. Her followers - mannequins baptized in mothballs and mildew. "Blessed are the virgins, not as purity, but as preservation for rot, for they wither and inherit spiders who build cities in their dust.

4. Saint Sadist - The Knife in the Chapel He carved scripture into her hips with blade's kiss. Every cut was a question. Every scar answered "yes." She didn't bleed. She bloomed. Her altar - a mattress on the floor, threadbare, thrumming. Her relics - laces undone, knuckles kissed raw. Her worshippers - those who learn to love through ache - not to be broken, but to feel themselves change. "Blessed be the bruise where the body remembers and the soul does not flinch."

5. Saint Backwards- The Quiet Mouth Never spoke. Only wrote on mirrors with breath. She read her gospel backward and came forward in tears. Her altar - a padded cell, lined with secrets. Her relics - locked diaries, bitten lips and static. Her followers - the ones who learned that the loudest thing in the world is the thought you never say out loud. "Blessed are the silenced - for they will echo longest."

6.Saint Marks - The One Who Left Marks Fingers dipped in spit, and lust. She wore bruises like confession. Her ribs recited poetry long after he left. Her altar - the sticky floor of confession booths and shadowed basements. Her relics - crumpled prayers on cocktail napkins. Her devotees - the lost girls, the late-night prophets, the ones who preach with lipstick half-smeared and fists still bleeding. "Blessed are the wrecked, for they see God - where others look away."

7. Saint ******* Girl - The Mirror-Twin Looked just like her. Kissed like a dare. She fingered herself through her and forgot which soul was whose. Her altar - a velvet-lined pillbox. Her relics - syringes, stilettos, poison-tipped prayers. Her faithful - the ones who tasted bitterness and called it salvation. "Blessed be the viper for she teaches the hand to tremble before it touches."

8. Saint Flagellation - The One with the Belt and no questions. No safe words. Just rhythm with writhing and something holy in the ache. She thought Opus Dei. Her altar - a locked cabinet of fingerbones and names scratched out. Her relics: faded obituaries, collarbones, forgotten lullabies. Her mourners - everyone who loved something that never loved back. "Blessed are the brittle for they remember how to break without bending."

9. Saint Hard to Get - The One Who Made Her Wait Hours. Days. Forever. She begged once. Then never again. When he finally arrived, she licked the floor clean, working him up. Her altar - a throne of side-gazes and unsent texts. Her relics - unmatched earrings, scorched Valentine cards, one-liners honed like daggers. Her worshippers - just survivors who lit the match and walked away. "Blessed are the scorned, for they will outlive your myths."

10. Saint Hygiene - The One with the Gloves Touchless. Sterile. Surgical. Reverent. He disassembled her with perversions and called it love. Her altar - a mattress that smelled like miracles and musk. Her relics - polaroids, fever-dream verses, glitter in unspeakable places. Her pilgrims - the ones who mistook sweat for baptism and danced anyway. "Blessed are the burning, for they will taste God in their own skin."

11. Saint Cold Shoulder - The One Who Didn't Stay He kissed her like a promise. Left like a thief. She kept the saliva mixed with his filth under her tongue and between her legs. Her altar - a single chair in a locked room. Her relics - half-erased poems and breaths held too long. Her flock - those who never felt safe in the light but followed her anyway. "Blessed are the dim for they are never blinded."

12. Saint Sadist - The One Who Named Pain "Prayer" He struck with a black strap and waited for the amen. She never gave it. She gave more instead. Her altar - the back step of a locked house. Her relics - old voicemail passwords, blankets that still smell like someone who left. Her faithful - those who bear the weight and never drop it. "Blessed are the stayers, for they know what it costs and pay it anyway."

13. Saint *** Slave - The One She Made Herself The last and only. Built from shards and wounds, stitched with tears. She touched herself like testimony. She whispered, "Take me, own me. "I live in the basement of your mind" Her altar - Stained **** magazines. Her relics - burnt joints and a mottled yellow soiled mattress. Her faithful - those who wait in line stroking themselves. "Blessed is she, the last saint because she never needed to be first. She ends the line but never ends the love.

Epilogue: After the Last Page Is Turned, I read it. And it read me, too - line by line, bone by bone. The ink didn't stain. It was rewritten. I came to the end thinking I'd be wiser. Instead, I felt stranger than ever. Stripped of certainty. Heavy with knowing. They warned it would mark me. They didn't say it would leave me longing for more. Now, when I speak, the truth hums like static beneath every syllable. When I dream, the words still whisper - not finished, not finished…And neither am I.

NEWSFLASH: Man, 78, Self-Rebrands as Teenage Femme Bombshell — Nation Loses Grip on Timeline:
EXPOSÉ | The Chrysalis Suite: How One Man’s Transition Shook the Foundations of Memorial General Hospital
Byline: by C. Vallée, Staff Writer for The Subcutaneous Ledger

FROM NURSING HOME TO NIGHTCLUB Parallel reports suggest the revolution began earlier than suspected, when an unnamed 78-year-old male nursing home resident unveiled a Y2K-era makeover and soft-launched as a seventeen year old femme via Instagram named ******. “He looked like the ghost of a prom I never attended,” said one Gen Z influencer. “My sense of time and gender hasn’t recovered.”
Now dubbed bio-camp insurgency by cultural theorists, this movement collapses diagnosis into drag, anatomy into allegory. “Clinical procedure is now performance art,” said Dr. Noor El-Amine, professor of somatic aesthetics at RISD Med.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS:
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
Anatomy Textbooks Recalled Nationwide
Mascara-Smeared Manifestos Appear in Hospital Chapels

Editor’s Note: Panic
ALERT LEVEL Code Cherry: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
In another story that has jolted the local medical community and sent ripples through the hospital’s institutional crust, 67-year-old unnamed man, once a retiree from Radiology with two hip replacements and a fondness for crossword puzzles, emerged last Tuesday reintroduced as Valentina D., cloaked in satin, grace, and unapologetic glamour.

Scrubs Abandoned, Mascara Weaponized — Security Reviews Footage: Surveillance records now archived under “mystic anomalies” show Walter — now Valentina — vanishing into the women’s locker room only to reappear hours later in full regalia: tulle, rhinestones, and a defiant contoured cheekbone. She made her promenade down the East Wing with the resolve of a pageant queen and the mystique of an oracle. Eyewitnesses confirm that several seasoned nurses dropped their clipboards.
What began as a low-key wellness check-up became something closer to myth.

EYEWITNESS: “She Glowed Like the Exit Sign,” says Janitor on Break
Oscar F., night janitor and amateur astrologer, describes the event as “radiant… like an omen or the ****** of a rapture dream.” He adds, “She didn’t walk. She hovered. She beamed. I ain’t been right since.”

HEADS UP: Orthopedics Floor Now Runway — Proceed with Caution
Orthopedics, once home to bedpans and broken pelvises, has reportedly been rebranded as “Ward 9¾,” a liminal space where gender norms go missing and gowns turn to trains. Staff have been advised not to interrupt the newly christened “transitory pageants,” now scheduled every full moon.

EXCLUSIVE: Hospital Insider Leaks Tiara Protocol Draft
A confidential memo outlines a now-shelved set of procedures titled “Operation Glamour Reclamation,” suggesting staff be trained in both trauma care and ballroom etiquette. The document refers to “emergent expressions of divine femininity” and encourages clinicians to “honor shimmer as a legitimate symptom.”

DECONSTRUCTED: Body, Binary, and Other Disposables
Medical ethicists and performance theorists have begun swarming Memorial General, calling the incident “a sacred deconstruction.” Dr. Nina Vega of Queer Phenomena Institute claims, “This isn’t just a personal transition — it’s a metaphysical jailbreak. The patient has successfully trespassed the clinic’s ontology.”
The hospital has yet to issue a formal statement, though a new sign now hangs in the atrium: “BE ADVISED: GENDER MAY NOT BE STABILIZED IN THIS AREA.”

Metro Dispatch — Boston, MA, 3:03 AM
Later that day in an act described by one witness as “the most glamorous Code Red I’ve ever seen,” a third-year medical student at Brightmore University Hospital stunned staff, bloggers, and bioethicists alike after reportedly removing their own genitalia in a hospital restroom and re-emerging 27 minutes later in a backless red sequined dress, a rhinestone tiara, and crystal-strap Jimmy Choo Bings.
Security footage shows the student — formerly known as Stanley G. — strutting down the corridor trailing blood and glitter, hips oscillating somewhere between agony and glamour.
“I thought someone had been attacked,” said orderly Mason Liu. “But then she walked out like she’d just invented gender and fashion in the same breath. I almost saluted.” A faint scent of rosewater and antiseptic lingered.
The hospital declined to comment on whether disciplinary action would be taken. Unofficial sources say a new emergency protocol is being drafted under the title “Code Cherry.”

QUOTE OF THE HOUR
“My body was a curriculum. Now it’s a manifesto.” — She tells stunned cardiology staff, tiara tilted. And when asked by reporters what drove him to it? He smiled through smeared mascara, shook his hips — still glistening with gauze, blood, and rebellion — and said: “I just wanted to feel cute.”
The line has since trended across platforms, emblazoned on tank tops, titanium scalpels, and protest placards across five continents.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
New Protocol “Code Cherry” Goes into Effect Across Multiple Wards
Slay-or-Suture” TikTok Challenge Overtakes Academic Med Tok
Anatomy Textbooks Pulled Pending Emergency Revision: “The Body May No Longer Be Binary”

BREAKING: Elderly Man Reincarnates into Viral Ingénue — Science, Ethics, and TikTok Implode ALERT LEVEL: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
Officials confirm the hospital is reviewing footage under a new emergency classification: “Code Cherry.” A leaked draft of the “Tiara Protocol” is currently circulating on MedTok, where footage of the transformation has sparked the #SlayOrSutureChallenge — now banned in six countries.
A spokesperson for Brightmore declined to comment, citing an ongoing review of hospital guidelines on gender autonomy and aesthetic insurgency. Meanwhile, medical schools across the country are reconsidering curricular materials in light of recent anatomical reinterpretations. As one faculty statement read: “The body may no longer be binary. We’re… reassessing.”

Lady Gaga… just follow the glitter trail. The revolution wears heels now — try to keep up, *******.

Executive Summary:
This document outlines the unprecedented destabilization of national, medical, and moral order catalyzed by the Brightmore Event, now dubbed Operation: Crimson Rebirth. The subject — hereafter referred to as “Entity Cuterina” — has initiated a high-speed cultural insurgency rooted in glamour-fueled gender mutiny, rendering all traditional ideological safeguards inert.

Post-Binary Aesthetic Weaponization (PBAW).
Primary Concerns:
Cultural Reach: Within 18 hours of the incident, #ICU Glamour surpassed national defense hashtags in digital engagement. TikTok influencers have begun performing simulated scalpeless rebirths to the tune of “Like a Prayer.”

Architectural Contagion: Hospital bathrooms — once strongholds of fluorescent despair — have begun emitting a low hum of possibility. Early reports indicate patients refusing to return to gendered wings unless “a proper lighting palette is installed.”

Moral Collapse of Youth: Gen Z+ have adopted red sequined gowns as daily wear. Reports abound of high school students submitting term papers as fragrance.

Doctrinal Schisms: Several prominent clergy members have defected to the movement, performing rites in press-on nails and singing updated verses of “How Great Thou Art” in full falsetto.

Institute Recommendations: Tactical Aesthetic Suppression Immediately requisition all remaining stocks of matte foundation and khaki. Subdue sparkle with “neutral-tone patriotism” campaigns.

Counter-Incantation Protocols Begin circulation of phrase “Respect the Binary. Revere the Clipboard.” Secure trademark rights to “Feeling cute is not a strategy.”

Gender Neutrality Containment Zones (GNCZs) Establish federally monitored “no-pronoun safe rooms” equipped with fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and damp beige chairs.

Emergency Moral Consultants Rehire Jordan Peterson in holographic format to whisper cautionary parables into hospital vents.

Incident Fallout:
AMA board chair Dr. Felix Grunberg reportedly sighted sobbing into a bedazzled otoscope.
Four interns from the think tank’s Youth Policy Unit have defected — citing “irreversible shimmer awakening.” They left a note reading: “My body is a mood board, not your metric.”
One analyst was discovered lip-syncing policy drafts in the breakroom mirror, now presumed radicalized.

The National Spasm: Monitoring the Margins Since the Enlightenment Got Weird
…..News Flash

The Brightmore Incident has made it clear that we were unprepared for ontological improvisation in heels. Institutional binaries are dissolving in real time, and no amount of comb-over rationalism can contain the spread.
We hereby request an emergency 500 million USD “Glitter Defense Fund” to research matte-resistant ideology, reinforce conservative bathroom architecture, and develop voice-based gender verification drones.
“Time is running out while normalcy is on life support. In the meantime, she’s still dancing.”