Poetry/writings from Jerry Masterson in Fevers of the Mind Issue 1 (2019)

Eats for the Ouroboros

Don't be afraid when the light shines
Through the web of lies spun by spiders
That fell from the sky before we took breath -
Before we built towers to reach the gods -

Before the owl sank its talons into our flesh
And we became the prey that built this machine
Who's cogs hum incessantly in our darkest hour
Reminding us that we are a creation-an-abomination-

A forced mutation incongruent with the beauty that surrounds
Acting out a script written in the stars that course through
Veins that know not the suffering of the slaves down below
But knows only the pain it feels inflicted by its masters above

While the snake feeds on his tail and finds that its starving

Mind Control

Trauma causes fragmentation of the psyche allowing external forces to shape and shift our collective reality.  It's pointless to try and pin down the reason in a rabbit hole lined with oil as we slip and slide through conspiracies that are too rich for poor blood.

The Samson Ritual of the Twin Towers marked the end of an age, and the beginning of a frayed thread that feebly held together my daily existence. She said she had never met anyone like me, and the sex magic conjured demons that fed on routine until the illusion of life crusted over with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

I drank Soma with Indra thinking that if I could become immortal, I could escape my nightmares of her.

I ate the bitter scroll that Ezekiel choked down, but nothing was revealed except a new way to dance.

I imbibed wine with Dionysus and writhed around with strangers between sheets, but her small was ever present, and the darkness inside became ubiquitous.

I committed a symbolic suicide that sent me down the River Styx where the true meaning of hate revealed itself.

Now I roam like a hungry ghost between the ether and her touch in search of a panacea for my misery, but the cure eludes me as another lover turns her head while I pick up more pieces from a broken spell.

She doesn't understand I've grown accustomed to the halls of Hell.
Maybe someday I'll find the exit sign.

The Temp

You may find me beside myself -
A doppelganger obsessed with her
While a plastic me goes through motions

A hollow version of the original -
a replacement killer
Murdering days - 
Aborting nights
But neither of us speak her name
For fear of conjuring the creature -
The eater of souls
The siren of lies
Singing her song of sex

Before the dawn breaks our bond -
Before we split in two -
Before we slight another day without her,

We listen to the music behind the silence
And remember when we were One...

Alone, I Sleep Tonight

It's colder than her mocking laughter outside
More barren than the landscape of her heart
I hug my knees atop permafrost counting beats -
Counting bad decisions that led me to this place

I chase warm words and memories of making love
Down spiral passageways to furnished rooms of hospitality
But each door slams shut as locks slide with lubricated ease
Disallowing me the pleasure of a single comforting thought

I can feel the tingle of a thousand fingers' caresses
An orgy of death that spreads across my dying skin
The blackness of necrosis takes the pain away
As I find the one room without a door

The one room without her lost fire
Alone, I sleep tonight

Bio from 2019 Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Digest Issue 1: 
Jerry Masterson: My goal is to walk a tight rope through this human experience; acknowledging said rope as little as possible to enjoy the view, accepting the fact my existence depends on the integrity of the rope and external conditions, but never to mistake the rope as a god, deity, or higher being to be worshipped; and when the time comes, dive fearlessly headlong into the fractal abyss.  Specialties: A very active pineal gland, an uncanny link between my metaphysical universe, occipital interpretation of physical surroundings, and syntactic ability to rhythmically express an existence in chaos. I cultivate, and sometimes choose to communicate, my boundless imagination. My Jungian shadow conscious never seems to want to take a damn break and insists on torturing me with endless flashes of parallel planes which brush against my Ego tauntingly, mockingly. This is not how I make a "living" it is actually what keeps me from making monetary progress.  I wouldn't have it any other way!

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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