Stayed all Night

Once more into the frey A3 lowres

Ill: «Once more into the frey», A3, 2019, Moiret Allegiere

(This is a poem I wrote some time back. Not exactly my usual topic, but I’ll share it nonetheless.)

I got drunk and
stayed all night
in burnt-out
toilet cubicles.

Old-school guillotine madness
a dream from footprints in snow
a trail of blood and cum;
carry on my wayward son.

Transcending life and death
with a drunkards hypnotic gaze,
I exhumed God, feeble-minded,
from rolls of toilet-paper
on cold stone-tiled floors.

An imminent explosion
pulse beat at the tip of the heart,
pounding nails into my jack-hammer migraine
transcending life and death
to sway far away, saintlike.

Clouds floated overhead
head over heels
posthumous humour between
walls lined with graffiti pointing
at the road toward intentions;
paved with good hell.

Crude drawings and sketches
of cocks and cunts
and words alluding to
fornication
within this holy cubicle
within this inner sanctum
within this temple to
the body.

After a while
cloven in twain with
my particles rising towards
space incandescent, diamond-like
and scattered alongside my marbles
I fell to my knees
at the feet of my porcelain-altar.

Lying coiled at the
feet of God
drawn wishy-washy towards
enlightenment, cold as hell
huddled under my cheap
trench-coat stained with vomit
and with booze and rot.

Existence exited right of centre
with high-strung nervous tension
and frost caked in the corners
of closed eyelids, blinking REM-like
aiming at immediate psychosis.

Voices cried «NO!» elaborating
drunkenly on fingertips elusive
in this foul ravens-night
cold as the babble
found in throats closed by anxiety
where God descended his beggars
throne, asking for handouts
and receiving analogue telephone
receivers to comprehend only silence on
the other line.

Heavy pressure on chest
huffing puffing heaving
for air, forcing breath into
lungs to be met only with
hyperactive neural interface-madness
click-clacking on the receiving
end of telephones spattered with gold
alone and descending into
madness particular to God;
his voice whispering in my
elusive ear: “transcend”.

Then transcending what exactly?
Collapse of air and breath and lungs
prolapsed back-stroke and neck,
stinging burning sensations of pain
and fatigue extreme
and fatigued extremities,
then turn your head and wobble
then turn your eyes inwards
gaze at pits of madness
vicious despair
cold and clinically insane.

Then transcend transcendence.
Become a noose,
a laughter golden.
Become a silence,
metaphysical, then freaking out.
Running wildly over the hills
wild horses roaring with laughter,
sacrosanct, taboo, fetishistic,
seeking truth in nonsense.

Words spat at murals
hanging drugged from streams of
light, crawling naked towards
mountains of madness, covered
in piss and shit and dust and stone.

Eerie mechanical prophet-words
immediate, cleaner than
impatience
in the face of God and in the
face of Society and its snake
coiled in the back of my throat
forcing vomit out in
screams of frustration
and roars of rage.

Then meet only silence.
Hands that claw at heartstrings,
silence more profound than
words of wisdom gathered
in stoned drum-circles, or in
dilapidated concrete-blocks where
peeking children gaze at death
through folded curtains padded
with razor wire.

Seven layers of madness.
Tragedy ensues.
Suicidal seeker-dream
drug born, ravenous and weird.
Pecking at the eyes of reason
when shivering scatterbrained
huddled in a corner of sacred
and permanent building-blocks
of bygone society, resting
at the feet of psychiatry
showing no mercy
to the likes of scatter-marbled
me, seeking drunk tiger-dreams
and strength in adversity
as sweat drips to the floor
and find me crawling at the door
beckoning for a reckoning
and begging for alms to
grace the ever present
present of the past
with calm relaxed
I-don’t-give-a-fuck-anymore
sentiments.

We exit.
Stone-hands stitched at our sides.
We exit.
Stage door open left and right,
gone from centre and balance lost.
We exit.
God and me and vibrations stranger
than her whispered voice in
meditations lost to eyes and
shaking voice.
We exit.

– Moiret Allegiere, 20.03.2019

_____________________________________________________________________________________

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