Toll the bells of the church of self
in the funeral pyre of music flare.
A love so deep, a feral beast.
A flame so lively, now a callous memory
prancing in the torrid wilds of melody.
Oracle of Sullen Reverie
Murmurs in the daytime speck,
kaleidoscopes and swirling strings of otherness
summoning the rising of the abeyant armies
through the yearning veils into the chamber
of nestling consciousness.
~*~
Murmurs in the air,
spectacles of colours and silhouettes
dancing ‘fore the heart whose river has run
into the high seas with nothing more
than the tearing love for the Black Star
which underlies the theatre’s spotlight.
~*~
Murmurs murmuring ever
the disavowal of tales oozed from opiate crevices
of malison and true derangement.
Murmurs of the innate throne
which hand pries open the torture room of sol.
Murmurs, quiet memories of dusk –
the revelry of Soul bleeding art
into the listless ball of fleshy command.
Birdy Bird of Beastly Serenade
Dare you savour the rain, the salted thunderstorm
from the still waters of the midnight lake?
Would you waltz past the terrain of creation’s sparkling rave,
and sample the sorrow of a dreamer in the arms of nothingness?
You! What do you know about yourself
save the crumbs which herald the labour of your grave?
Would you laugh and praise the years of inherited nonsense,
or frolic insane to the Void womb of spheres twain?
~*~
Rain, the eternal autumn of the incising lens.
All life within a dream of a dreaming nullity which rests.
And it is this, this fractal light, this temporal chiming bell
which weeps and pains; for its very nature it cannot consign
to the embrace of the Genderless Mother
whose silence grieves and puzzles
even those of infernal descent.
Splinter and Soul: IV
Once Upon a Whimsy Sway
In my childhood midnight fancies, many a time I ventured out into the darkness when my household slept soundly. Barefoot upon the cold sand of a beloved shoreline, I used to dance entranced to the ghostly moonlight as each rustling wave gradually stole me away from the family’s farmhouse into the mysteries of my tender age.
It was thus how I found her – sickly, unsettling, and unsuspectedly enthralling. The weeper of the bleeding wound emitted no sound, yet her tears flowed as burning screams down her dismal deep blood eyes. By manner of vesture, this almost tangible specter bore the seeming of grace deposed with the tattered blues of a royal born. With arms spread to the sides as she knelt semi-buried in the sand, the very flow of life trickled from her open back.
—Are you lost? —Transfixed in quiet wretchedness, this ethereal sufferer bade no answer still. Tip-toeing around the blood ring, I stopped to look at the injury. The stench of burnt skin and remnants of raven feathers suffocated my senses as they held threshold for a large clean and beating cut. A sticky and moist sorrow extended through my limbs, gripping my chest as though her pain pertained to me. In an impulse, I stretched my arm to touch the woman’s back, yet the wind blew furiously, and dreary clouds hung above our heads heralding the end of quiescence’s reign.
—Love’s the sepulture of hearts! — The ghost shrieked, bolting from the sand as she cast the mask of despondency upon my young eyes. Her icy clawed hands seized my neck and held me high above her shoulders, where the air grew heavy and her jet-black hair swayed defying the gravity of the Earth.
By virtue of my struggle to breathe, the woman let me on my feet with a blank stare and held me to her bosom with increasing capacity. My body wept and whined as the enfolding into such a touch seared my insides; for as the spectre sank her claws into my back, the words she bespoke were the tombstone of secular dazzling and the onset of a skeleton garden, “The key to lunacy is bound by thirteen plus seven divided by two”.
The utterance of the crushing composition proved to be somewhat of a relief to the grieving phantom, yet the opposite for me; for the figure demorphed into a goo which oozed itself in through my pores, and since that night, I dwelt close yet far away from home.
Splinter and Soul: III
My being had sought to wander, yet fought to remain quiescent in the heart of the primeval darkness. The tarry streams no longer hummed under my feet, and had not done so since egression sew its seed amidst my thoughts.
In the absence of up, down, right, and left, the pandimensional paths all led one way: nowhere. Strolling about rendered the same achievement as did curling up in place awaiting something to take effect.
Seldom did the uneasiness persuade the apparitions to reveal themselves; for it was this urge aflame which welcomed the perverse pleasure of watching someone writhe and crawl within himself.
What a predicament did the berserker sustain! To possess the drive to triumph, yet being grounded to the opposite polarity to rise atop for a glimpse of hope in this puzzle of timeless void.
Resting seated here, the crude and lively anal glands of night delivered its offspring of stifling smoke inside my lungs. I fumbled my chest, clawing at the skin as if I could cast it out of me whilst flashes of shorelines danced before me in a frenzy.
Splinter and Soul: II
I blinked once. I blinked twice. My limbs were clean, and with my vessel attired in silver satin my feet stood upon the venous damp sclera surfacing, as if a titan dwelt caught amidst the sere leaves and old roots of these woods which edges vowed to remain abstruse.
Following the pupil, the pupil followed me under the watching and unblinking pregnant moon. I rubbed my toe against the fiery iris; thus, imbibing through my soles the heat which this living soil provided. The eye, I thought I saw it cry; however, examination identified in it a glad smile. It was I who purged tears of swamp secretion, and it was I who exuded the black waters of limbo from my crown abode of breathing billows.
With faith renewed in the night of perdition, I lowered to my feet and kissed the eye which I sacrificed with might of will enduring past extinction. The sentient remaining lamp of its life bid me goodbye in a spectacle of bright fireflies, plunging me into the blackness above tar.
If I could have flown with the fireflies into the argent moon of that night, lucidly spellbound, the truth would have sung to hypnotize. Where was now the Lady of the Sky, my luminous and distant confidant? Could she hide from me for all the breaths a soul snorts? I knew she inbirthed the exodus I so longed for.
Splinter and Soul: I
I had begun to pace around entranced when someone knocked on my door. Instinctively, I stood motionless observing, evaluating. Only silence filled my ears with its ceaseless chiming. I turnt my head slowly, staring blankly at the white door, as I had not completed the calibration of my eyes to my surroundings.
A red letter slid in under the door, reaching my bare wet feet. I still did not move, but rather chose to close my eyes in an attempt to hear what laid beneath the closed entrance.
Nothing moved in the misty dead of afternoon. Only the chiming of silence seemed to permeate the fabric of reality as if the very tune pronounced itself to be the principle of life.
A lie, all manners explaining how escaped me; however, it was obvious, somewhere within the composite that was me, that it was a lie. This silence was just one kind of many silences, one wrought from midnight burden musk through the arduous hand of fixed earth chokes.
Warmth dripped down my clenched fists. The crimson colour matched that one which moistened my feet. Beaten air, the flapping of heavy wings at the other side, stole my attention away from the sight of blood; furthermore, a separation, a push back from a force blew me away in place when the pressure of a body departed from solid ground in a steady jump.
Silence shifted itself upon the takeoff of that which I never saw. Turning my awareness back to my vessel, I noticed my self-induced stance exacerbation as I rigidly withheld my breath unknowingly. Inhaling, I indulged in the sweet zephyr of serenity whilst the late gold of summer glow peaked in through the cracks of the closed blinds.
Picking up the red letter at last, ruffling waves summoned my skin to stand. With needles and pins, I tensed my back when I saw the empty script at hand.
A volcano, a choleric fire burst in coils within me. I rose and tore the door to pieces in one blow to be then startled by my own voice, which growled and roared at that which I never saw the command that I know whereto it had flown.
In the vast darkness above tarry waters, I stepped away in disgust at the cubicle illusion of the household nearing nightfall.
Silence dared to no longer chime in the bosom of darkness. The hissing whispers from no mouth now carried a distinct symphony which sequence sang of participations that, in life, I had undergone engendered by deeds of eldritch happenings. And oh! The voice of that jade alchemist! He whose lunar forging had brought the world to—
What did his forging bring the world to? And who was he whose eyes as gemstones shone sharp and cold?
(V) Sentencia y Agravio (Spanish Collection)
El recuerdo fracturado
Plaña arrinconado
Es un endeble suspiro atormentado
Que se niega a claudicar
Ante las olas de un colérico mar
Sus lamentos vienen a jugar
Y se impregnan cuan arpía
Con alma de niño acongojado
Que añora la calidez
De su legítimo hogar
Se burla el amanecer
Humano, cínico descontrolado
Cuando sus rayos se dejan entrever
Quebrando eufonías y salivando hipocresías
Ente de veracidad aguijoneada
¡Qué los demonios se despierten con vuestra llamarada!
¡Herejes dancen de par en par
en el alquitrán del agujero señorial!
En sueños os he visto pintar con daga de plata
Vuestro corazón ancestral
Y por más que os he visto dudar
Gallardo empuñas un himno
Epinicio de insólito destino
Y noctívaga perpetuidad
Cuando Llueve de Antaño (Spanish Collection)
¡Simiente del oscuro tutelaje, abogante transcendente;
tú, que inadvertida izas sombras en los pantanos de la gente; tú!
Simiente del exilio intransigente del olvido y la inconsciencia,
desciende del trono negro de la verdad plena
y consagra mi presencia con tu mano guerrera.
Hoguera del sagrado árbol nocturno, ubicua numinosa,
despoja los rasgos de la esclavitud recóndita
para que el cadáver viviente en los jardines del fulgor inverso
se arranque los huesos y reclame su imperio
más allá del péndulo mordaz de los dioses durmientes.
Muistojen Enkeli (Finnish Collection)
Pikku hiljaa se tuijottaa mua
Lähes kaikki vaikenee niihin siipiin
Syvyys tietää kuinka pajon oon ikävöinyt
Sitä mustaa valoo, joka saa mut uneksimaan
Omasta sydämestä
~*~
Pikku hiljaa se tuijottaa mua
Vaeltaisin sen hehkuun jälkeen ikuisuuteen
Siellä, kun on pois aamutähdestä
Siellä, kun tieten tahtoen
Tuli voiman kärventää
~*~
Pikku hiljaa se tuijottaa mua
On jo aika laulaa niitä runoja kielletyjä
Ylin valta näki keitä tulin rakastamaan
Todenperäinen itselleni olin aina vain
Trick the Trickster Trickier
It is undoubtedly there, amidst the crawling shadows creeping through the maze of what we call our minds, that we truly find the most valuable treasures.
I pushed myself through the feeling of indolence immediately after waking up and recording my dreams; thus, abandoning my bed and engaging in all immediate rituals of self-care, eating something, doing the dishes, and brushing my teeth last. All of this without allowing myself to complain or formulate excuses and muse about distractions.
I realized two things today:
- Indolence will always be there, and it is my responsibility toward myself to rise and conquer it every single day through awareness, will, and vision.
- As I washed the dishes, I plunged into my head, observed, and interacted with it on regards to my dreams today and to myself with the conscious push I exerted. Looking to my left and reading the label on the honey bottle, I realized that it meant nothing to me. Even the word “honey” was empty. Like this, I became conscious of the secret to self-control and discipline (quite note: control is not punishment/depravation, but management) on regards to food consumption, any action, or any aspect of social conditioning.
- Resistance only begets compulsive surrender. It is when things such as labels and actions mean nothing that we truly observe, that all temptations are rendered powerless. When everything means nothing, then do we consciously decide what to do next. There is an absence for the need to react because the stimuli mean nothing, and we are set on a vision we have made for ourselves.
~*~
This last part places me, however, in a spot where I must pen a side effect to my own processes and deductions. And that is an insidious feeling of rebelling against the insight/knowledge/wisdom acquired when thinking about it or attempting to teach it to other people and see how it can help, a feeling which strangely translates to resistance and compulsive surrender. This insubordinate is nothing more than a childish saboteur, a remnant of some subconscious programming that indulges in hoarding all effort and revelation because it somehow has made it seem that sharing tips was the way of losing them.
Well, let today be the day in which I take this saboteur to the guillotine!
I want to watch its head roll off, and behold the execution platform be bathed in its blood!!
Incision of Dusk Kissed Escapades
“You are one to abhor attachments that, like chains, hold you to an immutable terrain of flesh-eating corpses, yet by contradiction of your modus operandi, you launch against the Maiden of Oblivion with stark acrimony.”
~*~
“I see that being left alone with me has set your talents free. Do you enjoy what you see? Let all who have eyes to see and all ears to hear how all difference and manners come to be. Yes, I abhor her whose promise is weak, as I do loathe the haze of dormancy, yet that hardly makes me a hypocrite. You see, in my centuries alive, I have never measured progress through the eclipse and dearth of consciousness. I am the mindful memory who propels forward with sentient step, crafting jewels out of events that nothing may go to waste. I accept my responsibility toward myself, and erect pillars of serving grace. I forgo surrendering war to the deceitful bliss of forgetfulness, and embrace the shadows born from my ancient crevices.”
Ameles Potamus (Existence is her Sin)
Curse the nepenthe of thy balmy lips and goblet bittersweet.
Thy promises repulse me as do all sugary nothings.
Indolent thou flowest through the cavern of sleep,
and I cavort and carouse in my musings of befouling thee.
Wretched! Blasphemous!
Assassin of all triumph that has ever come to be!
Thee I exile by the very word
which breathed thee absurd and serene!
I deny thy power in the stretching sails
of a soul and songbird by art of ravenous will,
and dethrone the silent terror of the aeons at thy feet.
Grace my ears with the canticle of thy dead screams
as I hail with pandimensional fury
to the rise of Mnemosyne!
