Psst. Yes, you. I have a proposition for you. Why not relax and enjoy being in the moment. You have nothing to lose except your anxiety.
Click on the video below, and let yourself sink in the same way I did as I stared at the centre of the image. Quite relaxing!
Cry craven, you unfortunate sot of ghost semblance!
Give yourself to me in my melodic lunacy;
for I am Darkness of Origin,
and all the shadows in between.
.
Cry craven, you lily-livered caitiff!
Scald yourself for all your aeons at my feet;
for I am Spearing Light of Genesis,
and all the dawnings in between.
~*~
In clear skies and dry seasons,
mine ears be blest still
with Cyclopean weeping beads
where breath is tenuous,
and mind be indulged with dreams.
One eyed trickling in the wind of late silence
to the awakening film:
an echoing whisper and restless memory
of Furor Divinus calling beasts
to feats and banquets of love and evol.
.
Furor Divinus, the forest dance of atavism.
Furor Divinus, the disavowal of masks
held by public favouritism.
Furor Divinus, the thrusting horses of Abyss.
Furor Divinus, exalted bile screams of Dame Melancholy.
Monarch: Logos is knocked cold.
Umbra: I know, and you know that should not be a surprise. Equip him to our needs, and send him back to me.
Monarch: You have a question for me; I can see it even when you avert your eyes from mine.
Umbra: The question is half the question; for it, in itself, is an answer. For long, I have tormented myself with the possible why’s: Why would you send me forth every breath upon this world? Why do you insist that the labour does persist? I know now that those questions have an answer, which was already bestowed unto me past the maelstrom of tears and lacerating spears which by measure of true nurture launched to spike Élan out of the entombed barren bosom of dead’s play yard. No, those questions were answered; albeit, for them, you had me bleed rivers of blue bile. The question is not that which I do not know, but that which I know and find most vomitous and abhorrent. The question is the skilful dancer of awe-striking silken laceful fire who grins and frolics with expeditious comportment, bearing amphorae of lugubrious water to sober the lawful drunken. The question is the recognition of barbarous endeavour upon strings harrowing out of tune. The question is not an interrogative, but a ceaselessly screaming hostage whose sensuous hunger starves at the banquet of tellurian betrothment; for, alas, you saved me and condemned me to wander and wonder. The question is rightfully what is it that I wilfully sacrifice upon the altar of illusion and phantom womb as I race evermore upon freedom’s path and open skies, maintaining the balance of all elements at once. The question is a heartful confession of deep-rooted hatred and disrelish, which, at times, finds the will to subside to let me enjoy the simple pleasures. You extended me from your being with all the unlocking keys one may fancy and require, yet entrusted me to open the ashen, pale, and tenuous archways with the growing seed of primordial hankering. For much, I am forever grateful; however, it would be foolish and neglectful to deny that the question irks and pains me with tenacious transpiercing and ancient venom. And although the freely gifted and surreptitiously taxed embrace of martyrdom repudiates me as I do it, fruition and gratification do I extract from waging the infernal war.
Logos: When madness bestroke the already insane decaying gardens of the sleeping gods, Umbra wept with joy and forethought for that which she most sought: self-discovery, pure and uninterrupted destruction and salvage of self to revel in the flame at the core of herself. The unprecedented perils of the journey warned ere bestriding full force past the gate of no return; however, no forewarning and no distress can prevent a burning soul from seeking out and communing with the truth of itself. No illusion or carnal tale holds power compelling enough to ensorcel determination with provisions of naught. No pain, no fear, and no insidious nefarious discipline can overshadow the eternal call of freedom. Beknownst to the irreparable damage that would be wrought upon the narrative of the corrosive necropolis, Umbra raced past the known fences of self-containing brittleness into the remote and nameless lands beyond. The hidden wisdom of the sinister obelisks forlorn, in quiet yet self-serving unrest, brought peace to the mind whose vows bespoke all the uncustomary tongues of evil: enthroning dark love shunned by demands of irrational and deceitful corporeality concoction. Having tasted the poison of the depths, there was neither place nor desire for a golden cage. The familiar errands of the sickly nursed were of a derision and disrespect to all the potential marooned or fading away. And it was thus how the rebel yell was breathed and maintained,
“Sovereignty or death!”.
La sepultura incierta
de la concordia del alma,
tras osadía y odisea,
se levantará en cólera divina
bajo el cielo gris en recipiente
que augura la angustia.
El río cobrará su cauce,
y el ardor de la pérfida mordida
será el instrumento de guerra
que inspirará al espíritu fatigado
más allá del umbral de la autonomía.
Crystal bed of sentient quiescence
amidst the dark bedazzled
tombstone of solar haze.
A night of sentiment bedighted
in grim and graceful lace,
watering her wake with dry tears
of lucid bewilderment.
A brilliant spear imbued
with roses and nightshade,
the warm solitude untouched,
immaculate by virtue of rebirth.
The altar of sacrificial breath
for the alluring ambrosia of the dead
tells the tales of an ancient distress:
a sorrow of loving hell unredeemed
by the armament of the deluded flesh.
As if past ghosts dwelt still
in the willful caverns evergreen
to sanctify a heart
with the glacial touch of sleep.
Alas! Does the weeping trickle
through the breathing whim
of promising lands which,
by masquerade aside, exonerate
the uncanny aberrant.
And by art and fervent sacrifice
of briny diamonds in the clash,
does the wisdom of the fool
parades before the fire sword
of heretical command.
The wolf, the shadow, and the moon.
Stigma hominum befogs the mirror
of Exalted Harmony,
yet the glowing markings of pathwork
will always tune the melody of salvation
were one to know how to listen.
Does your rib not bleed
upon the evil thought and deed
which perforates the tender skin
like a dagger of steel,
and sows its poison seed?
Does the willful sap
in ancient memory and current plea
frolic still in the garden of sleep
with blindfolds of faux amaranthe?
In meadows of lemongrass and chamomile,
in the imperious dome of make-belief
does the pendulum swing
at the mercy of the subtle winds.
And it is this, the giant of multifarious grieving,
which by percipient means stabs himself
and wonders why his pain is ceaseless,
and which by dulled eyes and hope
embraces the tango of the infinitely lost
to drown the torch which brings about
the reconciliation of all the ailments superimposed.
It is only the prerogative of an enslaved consciousness to deem the truth apocryphal. Nothing bears meaning except for that which we attribute to it. And with no escape from influence, our consolation rests in erecting a fortress of all which is supportive of our true selves; thus, being armed enough to relentlessly wage war against that which does not serve our purpose, or perish in the crossfire. The outcome of the struggle will be greatly contingent on one’s own desire to be free.
In hours of soul night passing,
breathe in the venom of the deep dark waters
to change weakness into strength, vacuity into sentiment;
that no being may ever say your power you did neglect.
Rise, warrior of the eternal well!
The verdant fields sing with upmost praise.
Lift your sword and raise your shield.
Battle forward to keep your freedom.
Apparently, today is the first anniversary of my arrival to WordPress, and the birth of the Nocturnal Versifier. I had some conceptual knowledge of the season, yet time itself escaped through the masks of existential atavism and continuous obsession with mastery.
Contrary to the name, the Nocturnal Versifier was either wept, frustrated, or itched into existence by day, close to the all-pervading golden rays of one late afternoon. And if I am honest, I had never thought I would create such a platform to have my words readily available anywhere in the globe, just as I never thought such a thing would be spawned and erected upon the corpse of a family member.
Cheers to my aunt for the lugubrious inspiration! She opened the door for a more engaged poetic expression. Even though I may distrust her incorporeal representation, it should be known to her and to all that I am grateful.
I never knew my aunt favoured any song in specific, just that she adored everything Chayanne related; therefore, I leave here a song to her honour and memory.
In the tenebrous good-bye of lass gold lights
In the sombre bosom of the afternoon cap
In the crib of night-time greyed mist
Does life blossom through
The heart-beats of Dame Melancholy
In the sultry breath of summer
In the ball of corpses coming
In winter rings of loneness
Does my spirit lift and flutter
Like aethereal butterflies
In a garden of delight
Beknownst to amore sepulchral
Serpentine opus furrows
Through the sensuous heedful romance clad
In undercurrents of Plutonian dance
And in this, my paradise,
The forgot mysteries of the diamond lithe
Trickle down with the cascading sky
The cool zephyr yearns for my skin warm
And I remember beauty
In the arms of the thunderstorm
The pale blue seeps
through the blinds,
beckoning me to dance
and perfume myself
with the tears of dawn.
Oh, how they shine
with the wistfulness of youth
and potential life!
How tender their visage,
and sensuous their cry,
conjuring mirabilia
upon the world entranced!
And thus, I laud
a sight so bright,
honouring grace at heart –
a core of oceanic tides.
My willows follow
the smiling breeze
of early morning’s wet kiss.
My eaves drip
salted sacraments
of hidden beauty.
