Electrical moonlight melted on the sky, droplets effluxing, slobbering on black road; back alley steam erupting, cries of pain, screams of desire and some freak playing the Exorcist soundtrack in the distance, disrobing my perception. This city seemed dead. A nightmare. But is is my love, where I thrive. I savor nights like this: a night for ingression. To ingress into. To infiltrate. An introgression was eminent, I could taste it. The moonbeams tasted of honey while my attitude was molten—explosive, deadly, inorganic— yes inorganic. I call this my plastic mood. My demeanor flexible like polypropylene, extruding thermoplastic thoughts, disgorging resinous ooze across the walls of my psyche.

I spent all day watering my mind-garden, tending thought-crops, trimming theories, dousing deliberations and napping under my soul tree. I’ve designed and built cities unseen by anyone, forged armies of ideas and lived through an eternity of confidential wars, betwixt my many selves. But like everyone, I was tired of crawling through my own mind and wanted to find a new fissure. I want to seep inward, become a new creation. So I walk this chasm of night in search . . . wicked hunter.

Though I felt no effects, yet, I inserted a seventh peyote button (A spineless, dome-shaped cactus (Lophophora williamsii) native to Mexico and the southwest United States, having buttonlike tubercles that are chewed fresh or dry as a narcotic drug by certain Native American peoples. Also called mescal.) in my mouth. I chewed it intently sucking its hallucinogenic fluids, swallowing its powerful elixir. I walked unafraid in this netherworld, alone, knowing only the unknown was inevitable.

Rain began to mist, small droplets cooling my face among this mucid alley. I felt eyes upon me, above me, beneath me, everywhere. The voices of the dead humming. An uneasy complexion draped across my thoughts, but I refused fear. There’s nothing to be afraid of out here. Sure I felt safer at home in my own mind, but I wasn’t there. The feeling was a shadow. Someone, or something was near. I’ve never done peyote. What a fool I am, experimenting with potentially dangerous psychotropic drugs by myself far from home, alone in the blackened labyrinth of midnight. Feeling inspired, I composed poetry:

Species of Thought

My species of thought; brewed by witches
in cerebral cities thrive
composing insanity
humanity
splattered

an entire race of dreams
bloodline memories
ancestral notion falsified
devotion
to
myth

sorcerer of faces chiseled
pre embryonic
as deformed
of lineage
long dead forgotten

cultivating propagating; imaginary breed
warless armies of intention
internal ascensions
external damnations
interspaced; fragments misplaced
more than eternity; limitless

spawned fountains; mental mountains
in augmented altitudes; all while
sinking
in
nothingness

A twisted figure choked from brick wall began running towards me. High pitched sirens wailed, splintering through my skull, heart pounding, palms sweaty. It came quickly. I was afraid. Before a blink completed it was on me, a man splattered in viscous green sludge, horrifying fear burned into his face, “Run . . . run for your life!”

A strange aroma belched, an outbreak of acrid flavor, discharged from nowhere. Drums of voodoo sputtered in hypnotic rhythms through stone jungle, bellowing howls and bony fingers crackling. Satan’s hand screamed across the sky in cyclonic inferno, blistering fires tonguing, ripping the fabric of reality, bleeding the wind, shredding open gorge. Hell’s schism. Gateway to eternal damnation.

Voodoo Bellydancer

In Lucifer’s grasp: voodoo goddess shrouded in sweltering scarlet, trumpets of arrival wielding melodies of evil, tetrachords in orchestral pain, exotic harmonies and pulsating textures of witchcraft gently folding her onto reflective pavement.  She wore a skirt of knives, roses in her hair, necklaces of emerald flame and scorching crimson eyes. She bore midnight flesh and looked of Jamaican descent, plump lips and wicked edge—my secret bellydancer born of twilight and gifted by the devil.

She made psychic love to me as she danced, bare feet scribing geometries of madness, complex patterns of insanity, pleasure’s exodus. Congo drums pounded, swirling dimensions of instinct, enslaved to her. I desired her. The world stopped in dead silence. She and I embraced, a slow kiss, heated and moist. Her hands sculpting designs of intoxication upon my flesh. Together . . . we pulsated.

Her raspberry tongue twirled in my mouth, juiced lips melting me and engrafting me in lust. I collapsed beneath as she crawled atop making satanic love to me. An orgasmic rush of madness churned my innards as I erupted inside her. I ingressed within her. An introgression of totality as she digested all expulsion. I closed my eyes. She washed across my soul in the supreme clutch of delication. Overcome with woman and lustful brutality, I opened my eyes. My orgasm now in grand finale as I copulate with demonic nymph, midnight voodoo bride, infestation of witchery.

She squatted above me as I lay naked in rat infested streets, mind gnarled in hallucination. A vulgar twitch rippled through her gut as she excreted viscid gel laying three glistening black eggs upon my chest. The fetid stench of sulfur gagged me but retch I could not. I peeled them; bleeding blood yolk, devouring her seeds—her embryos—stagnant black eggs of wretched mindcraft.

We awakened together in crisp sheets, warmed by love and supple embrace. She arose from bed and stood naked before me. A storm of locusts dressed her and seethed into midnight skin as an army commanded in absolution. She said, “Gotta get my ass street side honey, last night was stellar.”

“Thank you, whoever you are.”

She blew me a kiss, dancing flame swirled as turquoise butterflies and sugared my lips. Hunger quelled, satisfaction acquired.

She gently voiced, “You already know who I am.”

*The picture is Evil Woman by Vicki-Pix
*I don’t believe in the devil
*I’ve never taken peyote

Tags: bellydancer, drugs, horror, mindcraft, peyote, sex, transgressional fiction, voodoo