To touch the crisp clean white linen in a Fine five star Hotel... To wear against her skin couture name brands that are worn only by the famous and wealthy. To touch the hardness of a sparkling Diamond stone set with a curving unique setting seen in Tattler or Vogue. To hold the puffy quilts on a revoltingly expensive Chanel Purse: these are things she found after touching them, that the surfaces were the opposite of the close ness and special warmth that society and Madison Avenue promised her. She was not greedy or vile: but by the time she had fur to stroke softly and toss over her slip dress, the pelt seemed like a horrid carcass and she wished she had never pursued these things... For now , somehow, as much as she hated the little fur corpses and the Balmain Minis, she found herself addicted to this vanity, and knew she was a fool besides!

I had been taken out of time again. Or did my own spirit move through my lower consciousness as if it were water , swimming in the tides of Quantum eternity? All I know is that questions of time of who existed who exactly was I as it seemed like "I" was many swimming through this Multiversal Timeline as a school of Snakes, the kind that eat their own tail encircling the world! I was aware that each time I awoke the spirit inside my husband had changed, the house was backdrop only. Where was I really and WHO???? The Portals I created for Power The Writ in Blood to Satan to Own my Soul and my Immersion in a supposedly fictional Grimoire : The Necronomicon, to the actual AGE of the home and the mysterious mountains and ancient forests around it... This was a heady cocktail that began bending reality truly. The fact is I had been to the furthest reaches of time and traveled into the " empty bodies" of celebrities and political figures ... An Illuminati Outreach Program had begun to make use of my strength energy and to be honest with the addition of some excellent class As my complete IDIOCY in opening a million fucking doors .... Astral travel? wonderful ! Would be really nice though if I was not used by unseen fingers and they could return my husband- Brother - Twin - whoever the HeLL he really was would the Ancient Dragon Spirit that resides within him please stop testing me.... And yes , I am now. Dry . Of. Energy. For . The . Watchers. I want only my beautiful home my best friend and simple human pleasures . I heard of another who awoke after a session of ritual who had gone through a cleansing so intense that she found her whole universe was chimeras... And the cosy bed she slept in switched to a rusty hulk in a NEVERENDING desert.... A blanket spread upon the top, she awaited someone.... She heard footsteps ....at this moment I put protection around myself so that this horror will never ever happen to me... It is as simple as love and complex as chaos theory. Which one is the dream. Which one is not? I choose the one that contains warmth and love.

It always happened. The things she first finds adorable , sexy, intelligent suave and mysterious , A GATEWAY TO A LIFE MORE LIVED even, with a man she first meets, within a matter of months weeks and sometimes within the moments of a close conversation, these things always mutated disappointingly into irritating, dweeb like, completely UNCOOL, and the things that made her feel good about herself because this wondrous creature had chosen her, as soon as said wondrous creature makes his mutual attraction known to HER, his fine qualities always ALWAYS mutated into a sort of mutual losers club of two. The sound of him ( post coital ) if she had lacked the actual COURAGE to make a swift excuse when as per usual his dreamt about hand on any erogenous zone made her totally shivering ly nauseated, the sound of him eating , after she spent the night against her better judgement with him, set her teeth on edge.With the first audible CRUNCH of a piece of toast, her whole mood turned black as the abyss. Lowering her eyelashes as a curtain so as not to see his smug face, she awaited his departure! Remembering then, an old film she saw where a man smashed a grapefruit half into a woman's face at breakfast, she grimly wished for something in the fruit family that would do more damage, yet still be amusing ... not an entire watermelon , too obvious, perhaps a jail term ... A pomegranate would do nicely she decided... And excused herself to go to the farmer's market conveniently located up the street.

When I was at the end of the Line and I could go no further ...and I saw the White Lady she called through the trees. I don't know if she was an Angel of Light or a daemon of Evil Lord you know that "white Bitch" brought me to my knees. When You and Your Beloved both Love also Cocaine , can you truly love each other ? Or is it a threesome not spoken of Each night in bed ? For that Girl lies between you, a pipe of glass Is that more truly your lover ?? Though She Promises all with the first singing kiss that goes to your head .... A feeling of desire never ever felt before... If you've NEVER MET HER TURN HER AWAY... For the WHITE GIRL IS A LIAR AND MORE.... Her promise of elation brings nothing but a twisting in the winds of desire thwarted again and again. While her cruel lips smile and laugh for this is the DEAL: THE LADY COCAINE SHE'S NO LADY AT ALL SHE IS A HARPY AN UGLY SOULED DEMON WHORE!

The Way on social media we make of our traditional best friend the Dog into a cause of hilarity / this is one example of our breed's insensitivity. A dog will always adore you or I, for any simple care or words, that are kindness that if we look back, any dog will by their great heritage of love they ALWAYS deserve. Homecomings are joyful always ; no judgements no matter what silly human thing I may have done... But hubby with roll of eyes lets me know" too much fun". Hurt a dog around us- welcome to our gun!!!!

In my veins ( that they exist at all is a surprise) there are subtle variations of color in scars that write me a once love letter , to the young sexy skinny junky girl, dancing jitterbugging upon her stilt like heels, her short shorts and blond bangs flashing... Queen of the Tenderloin..( needle her scepter street corner her throne) . Within the flood of the blood of Good Family... Of Connected Italians and new money... The DNA of a gypsy Queen rolled in the veins like thunder: calling out to live a life unlike the suffocating church and family and standards of proper behavior... Which wrote itself upon and within her veins like a strange calligraphy : writing to her of a joy in the forbidden streets( where once she was so young and still as clean as a new penny, desired by all the men, from the suited businessmen to all the besotted street corner boys, crazy in the streets at closing time.) walk up hotels, glib Indians holding out their palms for 15 dollars for a cut of a deal a trick.., calligraphy of a joyful innocent time where these places where as a playground to her.. Where within these veins are dancing the notes of a jazz musician playing his trumpet , after stoking the druggie fires within... A needle stick still written on her neck... Written within and upon her : tattoos of a biker life - ode to her Gypsy DNA: thick tears of twisted skin torn into the arms - when the dream of sparkling streets turned upon her, and then the Grim Reaper for a while surfed upon her rich blood and her sweetness of youth and music and desire.. Devouring as he went ( leaving a bullet piercing a leg vein ) a final testament that her wild joyous abandon had been played out) now within her veins are memories and the changing chemical blood cocktails of stability and estrogen /sadness / and also mature joy of home and love. She has found a home and a happy one.( but still the young flashing face and white breasts of a skinny wild child delirious with forbidden joy surfs the blood tide within, reminding her, that she dared to live a while as nobody would wish her too- and walked among the jungle beats of a surly city night, while loving it, and while the speedballs rang her ears like a long exhalation of music , she was a joyful thing that she knew was joyful for she was a shooting star- about half out of her body , and on her way to the thresh hold of death. One night she stayed under the bridge with an old bum... Who recited poetry and a Gang of Latino Speed dealers who poked a needle into her jugular vein... Singing speed songs to her, the solution went into her, a blood bloom brought a rush of joy... As the full fat moon shone down on these, her fellow dwellers on the Threshold... Not real to those sleeping in the suburbs or driving past with a look out the car window as they were on a street safari . Her veins carry a written account of a life lived without leaving our any dare she dared herself . One of the lucky ones... Not dead of aids or thrown by her pimp in a dumpster , magic of her gypsy heart rode the currents of her rushing blood, along with drugs that sang to her of a thing never named ... An unattainable closeness to the Spheres.