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!

Coalition of Yourself

Image by pieonane from Pixabay

Every spring is a delirious dream,

a fever of singing birds beaking

at the ribcage of the shadow of death.

Every spring, the tales of old fall asleep

to the chiming of wishes

which nature is to defy

the will to apotheosis.

But every spring takes the edge

off the wine of misery.

At one point, no reflex will escape

the awareness and dance of the puppeteer –

being there but forethought

and synergy with the lower machinery.

Thus, every spring is but a glass of alchemy.

Be drunk! Be mad! – Never still.

For the road is long in the quest for eternity.

Searing of Entombed Nothingness

I laid siege to the empire of myself to haul my heart away from the throne of lies which years of exogenous depravity armored and bid the hideous sun to shine dead inside.

I burnt alive to rekindle the truth of the looped mask.

‘Tis not love of liquid gold; for this ancient fire is not capable of such devotion.

‘Tis not love of pious monger, but a massacre in infernally divine hunger.

This haunting craving is the wailing monster, the archfiend who clawed my consciousness in behest of warning me against the silent storm of the reasons blinded by veils enslaving desires.

No more!

The wretched one wished alone to remind me of all which I am not, and it took his perseverance along with the lower octave of a household’s tutelage to bring about the executioner to the exalted post upon which the gods of the underworld bled their might in sacrosanct horror as their passionate tears calcinated the world from above.

‘Tis destruction, the benison of a lofty power – death made into form.

‘Tis not love, but growth.

Hillbound Burns

Refuse now thou to bedrink this nepenthe;

for the goblets have not been shared equally;

for the breach which enshrines the gradual antipathy

cannot be quelled with silent screams

and musings of lucid reveries.

Nay!

Refuse now thou to drown this holy shadow.

O Madam Mine of Chronic Harrow!

Suffer not the nerve of the brazen maggot.

The abbot doeth not eat carrots,

and thou, queenly void of vast crown,

be sure not scarce to call out the pyre

which thy soul enshrouds.

Thus, the python uncoiled from the liminal cradle,

and kinship brought no solace to the heart

whose dialogue spits jewels of rotten marrow.

Mistress of Good Malevolence

Image by ARLOUK from Pixabay

The Muse of Melancholic Fumes

uprooted the glass which incised the eye,

and with decorous hand,

escorted me back to the desert of impious minds.

I breathed in the sunlit sands with insurgent contempt

as the gentle Logos whispered tears of vigor worth to preserve.

My heartbeats raised in sickening waves

upon witnessing the mortification of inculcation

in the currents of fresh water unable to retaliate.

I ached and grieved from the shade of my parasol,

and longed for the maiden whose amphorae made the world flow.

Yet the star did not shine upon the barren land,

and I wondered who appointed the comatose to the front lines.

Emptiness that feels

Give me the antidote

for this poison I abhorred and learnt to ignore.

Give the antidote that shedding vessels denies to the core.

I never wished to drink from the bitter river

which divests the Dark Dreamer

from the revelations of existence.

How can a heart suffer in absence of pain?

Her face – branded, paralyzed, and pale.

The mirror she held as life said farewell.

The death of the innocent.

It is all emptiness, yet I cascade!

I cascade with the grief of a foreign sentiment.

Forgive me, Your Majesty;

for thou didst meet thy end,

and no mercy caressed thee

‘fore the tearing of the flesh.

Thou took’st thy leave in blasphemy,

and truth remained unseen

amidst the lines of neglected poetry.

And truth was buried still…

destroying images of me.

~*~

I am sorry.

Wound from the Cold Torch

Image by emsalgado from Pixabay

Wail the winter of thy harvest.

Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;

for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.

Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.

Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,

and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.

Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,

and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.

Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,

be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!

Remember what was to thee promised:

there is no life for thy venomed calling.

Womb Liturgy

Image by Bruno /Germany from Pixabay

Come to feel my heavy heart

as I bleed for you tonight.

Come to soothe my laments

as I stand for you in Light.

I run to you to die,

for there is mercy in your arms.

No love compares to yours, Forgotten Mother of the World!

Come to me, my shrine — my haven, my heart!

Sing me a lullaby,

and guard me with your mind.

Embosom me, Endless Dark!

Kiss me into your essence sublime.

Release me from the chains that keep away the Night.

The Sightless Star

Rue the enchantments

self-whipped into the skin of copper.

Bemoan!

Feel contrite at the sight of the blindness of the light.

Melodist whose path engenders cockroaches

far from grate, stroke, and grace,

let me not see the astray longing in the gemstones of your eyes.

Creator who denies the sovereignty of his might,

compelled be to crawl through the apertures of my delight.

Sing, child of moss and raindrop!

Take my hand, being of rust and summer glow!

I’ll take you to the kingdom of the lost,

and rob you of your life with a single touch.

Incarnate the tunnels of pandimensional growth and spiraling sorrows,

so that you experience joy nonjudgemental in the morrow.

Tonic Proclamation

Image by Rondell Melling from Pixabay

I divorce from the ties that prevent me from living life.

I break the shackles that hold me afright.

I burn down the doubts and imbibe the tonic of courage at last.

I am free to fly and transcend all there is to find.

I am strong –

Sovereign of my life.

Dead & Awake

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

In the breeze lies no breath

for which I extend my grip and forbear my weeping.

In every garden a pricking thorn

for every poignant rose worth keeping.

The tides wash over the sands of my soul –

wax me stagnant,

gorgonize me on the spot,

tease the ground so tarnished with the white execrable.

Erewhile it had not mattered,

but the name of her burst forth of every mouth

in the hopes the prayers were answered.

They knew not their saviour laid breathless and disarranged

at the bottom of the old stone well amidst the town square,

that I bled her to death with a pen to quench my thirst,

to spare myself of beholding her face.

Clouds had not ere brought about the darkness,

and pouring ceased not thereafter.

The sun had fallen into the land of the forgotten,

and in her stead a young black star was lauded.

The sun never tarnished, if you ever wonder.

The sun alone perished without warning.

Atavism of the Alligator

“Sí se puede”, I often heard. A phrase bearing the meaning of a possible endeavour, that it is possible to carry on and be victorious against the enemy.

Image Not By Alyona

“¡Sí se puede!”

I wondered what in soothe was possible, and then I said to myself, “It is possible to cry, to scream, and to die”.

Ruins will engage the eye with woe and nostalgia as the many pretty murals lauding comunism and the spooned psychological combat against an invisible adversary will display where all the care has been bent to.

Mother Nature stands as an entity uncorrupt. With semblance still virginal and fertile, she screams of potential; still her hand is vacant and devoid of pleasure.

Nature blossoms astoundingly vivacious as population is abased with everyday effort. But worry not, for it is possible. It is possible to be beaten and squeezed until the shores of the afterlife are reached. The war has already a victor in its own world of make-believe.

Image by Alyona
Image by baetzpetra from Pixabay

Easy it is to romanticise the land for her magnificent groves and mountains, for her promoted beaches. Only the inhabitants of this island reversed in time will reveal the truth that breath-taking pictures and the flora and fauna hide.

I have heard misery-conscious mouths avow that Cuba is delightful. Thus I wonder Do you find pleasure in starving? In being deprived of the basic untainted liquid that sustains life? If you enjoy the existing conditions so much, why don’t you stay and carouse until you putrify? Do you suffer from amnesia that when you depart you forget the sweat and the tears of the countrymen, or are you the kind to portray a deceptive reality to the ignorant eye? If that is so, I damn you to retrace your steps and recognise that common life takes after the appearance of a dump that overflows.

Withal dare say I that Cuba is an enjoyable land, beheld from the distance through some foreign godhead’s eye. Majestic in nature, death in the eye. Majestic in nature, oppression in the human heart.

With a raging sword poised to slice, I still wish to add that all of this I cannot chastise. Hard times forge individuals of a lofty stock. Warriors stand, strength surmounts all obstacles. People live mostly through what pertains to their personal and higher growth.

I wondered anew what was possible, and to myself I then said, “The magnitude of reality is felt through personal perception. It is all mental, and the learning process is eternal”.

Kaheri’s Labyrinth

Image by Michael Knoll from Pixabay
https://pixabay.com/photos/sculpture-statue-stone-sculpture-3055967/

Kaheri, although my blood, I marvel at all she needs to discover. This young woman is in pain, and she knows not how to use it or overcome it. She will not aid the improvement of her condition consciously, for she is far too lost in the crevices of reversed light and doctrine. Kaheri is young, in both body and soul. She may portray a harsh and loud exterior, but such assertion only hides the real her. Kaheri of my bloodline has still many tears to shed. This crude expression of a being in a suit of flesh mourns still her mother’s death, a bleeding and poisoned wound far too recent. Kaheri, the elder, is perturbed, and with a reason.

I became cognizant one afternoon, a considerable amount of days or weeks before the news of the deceased. I sat at the table as I consumed my lunch when I heard through a phone call that the woman who birthed Kaheri would have to undergo surgery. I neither saw nor felt but knew with a certain conviction about the impending earthly departure. I knew that neither Kaheri nor we would ever embrace our troubled beloved sick as a fellow human being as the mortal repose would not have mercy on her.

According to what we gathered, specially after the sudden and forced trip to Cuba, our troubled beloved felt her strength waning, but never did she speak of the severity of her unwellness. She was taken to the hospital where she was cut open at the say of a doctor for the extraction of her vesicle without running tests to verify the source of the soon to be dead’s malady. In sooth, Kaheri’s mother had, for a long time, incubated Hepatitis B which was passed onto her by her idiotic husband who failed to follow his check-ups to observe and treat the condition and even ever mention that he was a bearer of the virus.

The removal of our troubled beloved sick’s vesicle was undoubtably unnecessary. This reckless operation only weakened her immune system and vampirised her life. Due to a negligence, Kaheri is now orphan of mother —a morose cup weeping upon a bleak tomb, demanding that her life giver answer why she left when her child needed her most. Due to a negligence, we wet our cheeks with salted grief as there was still a spark of life in the dead’s eyes.

Affected by the bereavement of someone who loved me strong and kissed my eyelids at any chance she had, I am also one to comprehend that the dead are only dead in flesh, placed on a different plane of existence that humans carelessly disregard out of fear or ignorance. People may concern themselves with the condition of a fellow being, but they, we, from our innermost, only grieve out of a selfish sentiment. We desire what is lost when it is too late to retrieve it. We will remember our troubled beloved, but one must not journey through life stirring the bile of suffering. The deceased should be celebrated instead of hauled down by sorrow. I, for once, decided to remember the newly departed with a smile as it is imperative to practice the making of wonders blossoming out of gloom. Kaheri, on the other hand, has a harder path, wandering the youth-besotted labyrinths of her mind as she learns to heal and find inner peace. The old child has been taught the ways of detriment. She, like many, is unable to grasp beyond the thresholds of physicality. Untrained in much that is even herself, Kaheri must voyage her being to know how to will a change within herself with the mere intention of provoking one. One can only observe and offer a hand if she truly desires it.