Sunken Rainbow Voodoo.

I thought that the dark arts would give me some sort of perspective on that which stalked me in the night. Waking upon cool nights with a lightning bolt teasing my chin, my hair prickly and brazen, my eyes dance fantastic. My toes are lost years of my life keeping me afloat. My ears lean out over the chasm of the sonic landscape like tormented antennae. My skin is a blanket of oil billowing out over the surface of a sea unknown and uncharted. All the organization under the surface fights and breathes and longs to see the burning coal of a sun once more before sinking to the depths beneath. My hands are crooked gangsters screaming down lost highways towards the nuclear glow teeming upon the horizon. They lost their motivations to two bit bookies years ago, their direction askew across the torment of a bet that took everything. My feet are tired junkies spilling their guts in methadone clinics, unable to take themselves anywhere. The needle crowded with disease looks like a parole officer in the effervescent moonlight. My brain looks out across the jagged water from the lighthouse with a toothpick hanging from its mouth. The toothpick is a method of acting that helps to lose a sense of being. And two voodoo dolls just fell down from the heavens. And the darkness gathered and I felt a pitch in my belly like an ocean's swell. And a rainbow broke through the clouds and a pattern of reds and browns categorized the landscape before me. These teeth are men with batons beating back the riot and these eye sockets are rubber bullets leaving welts. The blood rituals are the only things keeping the daily melodrama from wreaking havoc upon my normal mind. Each of these vestiges of sanity, these sunken and spectral dolls, are like delicate strings holding up my swaying heart. The meaning of the ceremony is lost amongst the feathers and claws and tired moans.