A List Of Irritating New Age Excuses by grace mcgrade

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A list of irritating New Age excuses I definitely have used :

I feel like you are projecting a family pattern on to me and I need to go

I’m sorry I can’t do tonight I’m feeling really very psychic

My sound bath went on for three hours

I left the shrooms in a past life pair of jeans

Saging for you! Sorry I can’t make it to the funeral!

I don’t want to see that movie, I don’t want to manifest that

My yoga teacher told me not to


My psychic told me not to

It’s because I’m a Leo

It’s because I’m an eighth house Leo

It’s because I’m an eighth house Leo combust Venus with a messiah complex

My higher self told me not to

My guides told me not to

I can’t have sex with you til I’ve given you reiki


I can’t have sex with you because I don’t want to quantumly entangle with your ancestors

My vagina is a portal and I don’t feel like you are prepared


The Devil is a Man Child With a God Shaped Hole by grace mcgrade

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I was fond of your darkness and perhaps sick for finding beauty in it, because I sought pleasure in the ability to connect the dots and empty parts of you like stars, an Ursa Major of intricacies, of pain and incomplete stories. Unresolution.  A melancholic absence sprawled out like an untouched, unfathomed puzzle. With delicate moments of light, gasps of understanding, clues of knowingness. And then darkness all around, encapsulating- seeking environments that made your insides match your outside, where I stood faint and misplaced, illuminated by dream. Dreams of potential. Dreams of too much knowing.

It exhausting being in knowing. It is even more exhausting trying to forget. I am the inbetween. I have made my home a corridor where I can greet each departing guest. Know too much? Time to forget? I love you. Know too little? Time to remember? I am with with you.


I can say the most, vile grotesque things imaginable when I’m angry.
And women shouldn’t get angry.
They should be soft, and contained and only whisper lovely things.
I am tempestuous and overflow with everything, with rage, with passion, with breath and breasts and love.
I am leaving and I am taking all of my magic with me. I have not shattered and I am not broken.

I want to say that you will never get to touch me again.
I imagine that the rest of your days you will have an unquenchable thirst, a strange tiredness that you cannot fully sleep off. It  drifts you down a reel of memories and words unsaid like libraries collapsing in on themselves. I want to say that every woman after me will be doused in my name. Soaked in my shadow. And you will become dreadfully bored. The thought of your missteps will keep you awake, becoming itch you cannot scratch, and the thing you must have left somewhere. And you, my darling, will be empty.

And I will be full.

I will be your most important pain.

But to say that would be vile and grotesque - and women,

women should never get angry.


My Gemini Moon by grace mcgrade

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I left bits of myself floating in the Scottish highlands, residing in clouds and groves of green right before dusk. In solitude but woven into everything.

The days of keeping people at arms distance as a means to protect me from the intensity of my own emotions are over. I did this countless times, with the words I did not say and the moves I could not make, because my heart was swollen, clenched like fist, clinging onto wounds I mistook for character.

Sometimes I get afraid that if I become someone’s resting place, it will interfere with my freedom, my desire to live based on intuition and spontaneity- without need for explanation. My need to be constantly reborn. To be treading on new terrain. To have secrets. To be wild.

I find myself torn between an insaccepable appetite for luxury and a simultaneous anarchist repulsion against it, wanting to be deeply spiritual and simultaneously delightfully inebriated and away from everything. I exist in polarity and paradox. I need as much spring air as I can get. I am hungry for irrefutable evidence of the impossible. Language feeds me, and I follow it, like an ethereal fog into the woods, endlessly seeking for the words not yet invented for feelings that still feel foreign.

I am trying to anchor in heaven, at a sick time, in a sick place.

I am eager for new kisses, not ones that are bitter or half full. No, they don’t have to feel like butterflies, or fireworks, but make them lasting. Burning. Searing new perspectives inside of me that sediment and consolidate in the deepest folds of soul.

Violently Alive by grace mcgrade

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I have had a sordid love affair with danger and intensity that was once a suitable refuge but now feels heavy. I have always been half crazy, at times cerebral, bewitching and heartless. Impulsive and non-linear. I am unpredictable and hard to capture, because that is how water and fire are; incapable of being held, never appearing the same twice. But I am getting to a place where I have accumulated enough self worth- not from anything that can be taken away, but from the intimacy I have with my own soul. It is from this place that I have lost the desire to be numb, or on the lip of some oblivion. In all the ways I used to want to escape the truth and run from reality, I now want to run towards it, and be immersed in it, and go deeper and deeper.

You are wine, dark wood and stone. Mahogany and rich. Familiar and infinite. Consoling. Sometimes seeping out onto your surroundings, with a peculiar, animal yet otherworldly magnetism. Bleeding on to me like a series of liquid transparencies. You are a creature of strange and mythological beauty. The child inside of me likes the child inside of you. All the things I am terrified to say to you, I whisper to the stars, in hope they will relay my quiet messages.


All My Friends Are Angels by grace mcgrade

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They couldn’t tell the angels they were angels when they left them here. Those were the rules.

Instead, they left clues. Clues obtained in moments of love- because those were the most angelic resonances. The resonances of remembering.

Moments of love were easy to hide clues in, because there was an air of invisibility, you couldn’t see it or smell or touch it, but you knew it was there. Sometimes the clues were like computer codes, in the eyes of another, or in a long sensual embraces. Some were even written in the sky, in crayola sunsets with clouds like pink cadillacs and lilac wishes.

Sometimes there were clues in the words of friends, who could see you better than you could see yourself.

Some angels smoke parliaments and only wear leather, light up at the sight of puppies and are overconcerned with the well being of stray cats. They have skin like alabaster and silver, and jade eyes that speak of the sympathy of the forest. Some think in pairs of people and only came here to love. They have all the jokes and smell like diptyque candles.

Some angels are made of old hollywood movies and cowboy boots. Watching them is like watching a black and white movies, they move like chorales of ghosts and dance on sidewalks. They cackle like candles cracking, and shed salt water tears in your forest bed. They are fearless. When they smile the room smiles with them, and your heart expands fifteen inches further. These angels are seekers, and ask all the right questions. If you are super lucky, these angels will live next door.

Some angels collect dogs and johnathon adler ash trays. These are the wisest of all the angels, and can parachute their consciousness out to fill homes and offices and entire cities. They channel elaborate french cooking and see the highest future versions of people, even when they can’t see it themselves. They save lives many times over. These types come from the sea but understand desert gardens, they are cosmic libraries and curators of perfect moments. They give out of themselves and sometimes have blue hair. They are sparkle fairy princesses dressed in black cashmere.

Some angels are elven tattoo clad boys, who assure you of your powers in the darkest hours. These are rare- and you have to hold on to them- because at any moment they might shoot back to space. They drive white mazdas and set doves free. They will take you on journeys above time and make the best camping partners. They are cosmic inventors and dream actualizers, architects of alien intel and visionaries.

Some angels have as many freckles as stars, and wear back braces. These are the oldest angels but come disguised as teenage girls. They complain about being taller than most boys, but old angels need tall bodies. They wear converse and pajamas, and you can’t really take them to restaurants because they knock things over, put silverware in the tea candles, and scribble alien symbols on the tablecloths- because they are half here and half in the astral, mending broken hearts. They feel everything in every room, and glow at a slightly inhuman frequency, even when making silly faces. These ones are wickedly beautiful, and equally unaware- but thank goddess for that, for their souls manage to seep out and overflow, blind to the subtleties of it’s immaculate container.


Your very best days will start and end with these angels.

Wild Man by grace mcgrade

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I don’t want you

To get lost in me

Or even to get found in me

I don’t want a fixer upper

Or to hold your hand

And be your surrogate mother.


I don’t want a

Politically correct

Porsche driving

Nine to Five

“What time, What place?”

Fine Wine and Dinner

Missionary Style

Man


I want second hand jeans

Midnight chaos

Anywhere, anytime

Morning wrestles and in the woods

Once a day

Twice a day

All the time


\\\\Not sex, Love


I don’t want agreement

I want lofty rebuttles

Tape me down to the earth

Hand to feet

Mouth to Mouth

Shoulder rocking laughter fits

Blaring brilliantly

Untamed

Man

With a pathological need to understand the driving forces of all consciousness

Exposing lucid, creative madness-

Like the unhinging of passageway doors

Like the unclasping of a belt buckle


A mutual blending and fusion of madness,

Equal parts godly and erotic;

Leading to everywhere

And nowhere

Ending in death and through to eternity.

Intertwined like Celtic knots

Folding lazer origami

Intricately interconnected and delicately detailed

High on design and wet on holiness.

you can make the same love to a thousand women, or make love to me a thousand different ways.

you and me, we were raised by the wild.

remember what it's like to get free and i’ll be waiting on the other side of paradise.




Celestial Rememberings by grace mcgrade

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I have a case of the celestial rememberings again. Being intuitive is not like being a fortune cookie or a crystal ball, it is much more like gauging the delicate interconnectivity of all things. It's much more like seeing what someone will become and simultaneously what someone was before all of this, this mass hallucination of forgetfulness. It can hurt.

It is the most painful when someone you love, some you perhaps had a soul contract with- chases the forgetting.

The veils between this world and the others disintegrate around me, like withered, ancient lace, fragile enough to see through. I have moments of feeling like I  am in ten places at once, of feeling layers peel back like curtains, revealing more and more truth-just when I thought I had arrived at stable conclusions. I need to be in constant communication with the cosmos, or else they find strange, bizarre and discombobulating means to communicate with me.

What am I supposed to say? I am sorry, I don’t fully live on earth. You see, it’s hard for me here, and not what I am used to. I am forgetful about things, like keys and iphone chargers- and money- whatever that is, anyway. I don’t really understand why people are so mean here, why they are so abrasive, like sandpaper on skin. I forget about things like taxes and scheduling and time, but I remember why I am here.To remind people, that when they are hurting, when they are on their knees, or their last dollar, and it feels like the world is poisonous, they are still magic. Magic is the end of separation. The end of separation from you, and what you desire. And in that way, it is not so different from love.



Take me back home. Where the land is unbroken and the soil is rich and clean again. Where the souls you signed up with never betray you and the clouds have no toxins. Where the winds are perfumed with velvet pinks, where dreams are tangible, where everything is laughter. Where madness is a shared thing again. Where time is different, and there are no thoughts of the past nor the future, just one, continuous, perfect moment. Where choruses of stars sing back and where fairies, like me, don’t get trampled on or lost above ground. Where there are no words for pain or heartache or suffering. Because they simply don’t exist.


Vampire Boys by grace mcgrade

In fairy tales, they speak of monsters and love, monsters and love as two seperate things. They don’t speak about love being a disease, bone-crushing, infectious. Like a wildfire, destroying everything in it's path. Or how sometimes monsters are dressed as beautiful young men, disguised as lovers, who come right to your doorstep. Like flowers of premonition.  How some monsters have shiny smiles, and glistening eyes, who say things like “Please forgive me,” and “I love you.” How sometimes, monsters and love become the same thing, and you let someone drain you until you are empty, and they are full.      He lived in a cave and he felt like a cave. A cave amidst canyons bleeding wildflowers and hallucinatory purples. He felt like a cave carrying centuries, his chest reverberating with a song you couldn’t name, but you knew from somewhere. His smoky throat and unbalanced breath let out fumes that immobilized me, like airborne paralysis.He held me fiercely, as if we only had one night before he had to go back, return to the deepest cave, evaporate, tumble back into darkness. It was sick, it made me sick, how much I wanted him. He was as fucked up as I was. Can you imagine the two of us together? Fucking each other up. In the morning I would wake up trying to recall how far down we went, which subterranean chamber I had abandoned bits of myself in,this time.     He was alien, a hundred folded galaxies, funnelled tightly through a body, like an ill fitting suit.  Wearing seven jackets from different decades and cowboy boots. When I didn’t think about him I only thought in planets, and in that way, I think he kept me here. I saw him fully and it terrified him.I was an echo of him, when he didn’t want a mirror or a magnifying glass. He wanted a distraction, he wanted entertainment, and I just wanted to see him get free. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, I wanted to be his epiphany.     I gave up on fragility and subtlety long ago, but I feel too much, and he didn’t protect me. I would have given him my heart and my eyes and woven a tapestry of all my favorite feelings and handed them to him, if he had just stuck around and kept kissing me. The kisses that sent electroshocks through my vertebrae, kisses with nanoseconds of blue lights, flickering in my minds eye, like old film on a screen. Instead he dragged me to hollow, dark places. At 3 am all the pretty people, all the models, look like waxed faced corpses and I am so sensitive, I see everyone’s sadness. Hollow, Hollowood. Empty.

In fairy tales, they speak of monsters and love, monsters and love as two seperate things. They don’t speak about love being a disease, bone-crushing, infectious. Like a wildfire, destroying everything in it's path. Or how sometimes monsters are dressed as beautiful young men, disguised as lovers, who come right to your doorstep. Like flowers of premonition.

How some monsters have shiny smiles, and glistening eyes, who say things like “Please forgive me,” and “I love you.” How sometimes, monsters and love become the same thing, and you let someone drain you until you are empty, and they are full.



He lived in a cave and he felt like a cave. A cave amidst canyons bleeding wildflowers and hallucinatory purples. He felt like a cave carrying centuries, his chest reverberating with a song you couldn’t name, but you knew from somewhere. His smoky throat and unbalanced breath let out fumes that immobilized me, like airborne paralysis.He held me fiercely, as if we only had one night before he had to go back, return to the deepest cave, evaporate, tumble back into darkness. It was sick, it made me sick, how much I wanted him. He was as fucked up as I was. Can you imagine the two of us together? Fucking each other up. In the morning I would wake up trying to recall how far down we went, which subterranean chamber I had abandoned bits of myself in,this time.


He was alien, a hundred folded galaxies, funnelled tightly through a body, like an ill fitting suit.

Wearing seven jackets from different decades and cowboy boots. When I didn’t think about him I only thought in planets, and in that way, I think he kept me here. I saw him fully and it terrified him.I was an echo of him, when he didn’t want a mirror or a magnifying glass. He wanted a distraction, he wanted entertainment, and I just wanted to see him get free. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, I wanted to be his epiphany.


I gave up on fragility and subtlety long ago, but I feel too much, and he didn’t protect me. I would have given him my heart and my eyes and woven a tapestry of all my favorite feelings and handed them to him, if he had just stuck around and kept kissing me. The kisses that sent electroshocks through my vertebrae, kisses with nanoseconds of blue lights, flickering in my minds eye, like old film on a screen. Instead he dragged me to hollow, dark places. At 3 am all the pretty people, all the models, look like waxed faced corpses and I am so sensitive, I see everyone’s sadness. Hollow, Hollowood. Empty.