Salt on your Wounds

Image by Saulius Rozanas from Pixabay

I am

Salt on your wounds –

The sacred opiate

To your mortal tomb.

Linger on my kisses,

The ebony wedlock

Of your ethereal wishes.

~*~

I am

Salt on your wounds –

Poisoned goblet,

Watchful shadow enthused.

Linger on my kisses,

The ecstatic union of death

Devouring fears from night

‘Till the rise of day.

~*~

I am

Salt on your wounds –

The Darkness of your soul

Tearing down the prison of the world.

Linger on my kisses.

Taste the sap of my holy vileness,

Your rightful lover virgined in

Sin and satin.

~*~

I am

Salt in your wounds –

The forbidden fruit,

The gatekeeper and key

Of darksome tide love

And nighttime liberty.

Linger on my kisses,

Wintry lips whispering

Over casket wombs

Of eerie spring,

Of olden alchemy.

~*~

I am

And you are mine.

Image by Dieter Robbins from Pixabay

Eyes of the Black Sun – 02/04/2021

In the heart of darkness,

death blows me a kiss;

her shadow lips

leave molten clay on my being,

and the arms of autumn

at perennial work rejuvenate me

in the womb of Abyss.

In the heart of darkness,

death blows me a kiss;

from her citadel she sings

she sings the reverse canticle unseen,

and I run to salute her

with devotion bittersweet.

In the heart of darkness,

the sanguine breaths into lucidity;

its palpitations paint the end of all aeons,

their nescience and assiduity.

The torpid cave in

under the crushing might

of primeval pelagic fist,

and I watch undaunted

the satire stomp in fury

as it frolics with ardent lunacy

to the calling of non-being.

El Amante Idílico

Image by Simon Giesl from Pixabay

Me dedico a tu mirar,

corazón salvaje – bardo de canto brutal

sobre el vaivén de las tinieblas

azoradas por tu pasión sanguinaria.

Me dedico a tu mirar,

corazón antiguo – seductor de las estrellas

en el rito de las estelas de almizcle dulce

y hoguera primordial.

Tu voz se hace entrever sin palabras

sobre mi piel desatada en el grito del placer eterno,

y cada noche adulo tu esencia bélica

en el romance fiero de la bestia

que en sí encuentra propio anhelo.

Arrullos de la Noche Pensativa

Del regazo encumbrecido

por las llamas del desafío

brotan rostros de fantasmas:

adumbraciones de la frente cándida

y la promesa larvada de un trino transcendental,

evocativas de la pasión inaugural

de un trayecto elemental

que anhelan la libertad de trenzar

pulsaciones de sangre vívida y éctasis lunar.

Labios de seda componen poemas

sobre las olas turbulentas de la oscuridad,

y el amante teje entre suspiros las esferas de su realidad.

El Grial de las Profundidades

Image by Ann_Milovidova from Pixabay

Dado el toque del abismo resplandeciente

bajo la mirada de la serpiente señorial

de los secretos a vela en carne inerte,

bailan como ninfas de cuello y holgura

con beso supurante y ansias de amalgura

esas lóbregas ligaduras – malhirientes asesinas –

en busca de quien por sombra y cultura huya

de esa voz – esa dulce lírica nocturna –

que alimenta los destellos del alma

y en sus latidos revela la vida pura.

We of the Weeping Bloodlet

Divided we stand in the sight of a frozen sun, salivating for the wine that would assuage our inner draught only to beset ourselves with the oozing bile of desert forests and pregnant voidness.

You are not empty who feels neither world nor fellow creature sentient, who neither sees the road nor heeds primal urge line-up. You are not undone who by strain and drunk melancholy spouses your pain into caves of clanship blindness.

Do not think, but feel again the wordless voice drowned in waves of taught heartache. You are a treasury of inconmensurable power waiting to be fertilised by rightful seed and rain-falling.

If you are unsatisfied, and thereby crawling through the sewers of hopelessness, I dare say you need just wait for the burning stellar blaze which with sweetness buzzes in every cell. On that day, my dear bud, you will have come closer to yourself than all those years of nescient judgement under unawareness and preconceived notions of life and the self.

And in parting words I say, “Value yourself!”; for there is no other like you, and it would be a shame to see you fade away locked up in the mutable illusions we have come to accept.

May you find a reason to smile this new year.

Sincerely,

Alyona

The Pale Lover

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Winter is here. Saturn strokes his beard, and the sages retreat into their caves to ponder upon the mysteries of death. The crows outside enliven the deafening silence, yet fall quiet with the same swiftness they took to their cawing.

In the cold breast of the sickle bearer, the dim grey world evokes an eldritch romance which human words stumble and fail to tongue. But buried in promising old tomes, I find the next stage for my atrocious play – a beauty which forlorn, a wisdom which is dreaded.

Lulling Tickles in Liminality

Image by DarkmoonArt_de from Pixabay

As Darkness sways her regal skirt

to the dead’s drumming heartbeats,

I sit still entranced in silence until Being is

and all surroundings disappear.

Sea foam bubbles and kisses itself away in my ears –

the last remnants of the multitude storm

have no sway over the rock of protean lore.

The weathervane slightly oscillates

by the systole and diastole of breath,

reconciling lover and beloved

with the primal scent of lively opiates

in sightless search. 

And to commensurate the sweetness

of honeydew, roses, and rosemary blends,

all dreams entorched wed the shadows

in the tireless dance of visceral cantus

and hedgehog air.

Archaeology of Self-Owned Phantoms

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

Every time I look outside myself, there is nothing. The night scowls — harsh shadows glare from every edgy corner and crevasse, bluntly isolating themselves from the parking lot’s cold light. My humming fills the air of this witching hour whilst my eyes imbibe from the hollow calmness. I roam awake in the sleeping field of humanity, now and again waltzing in the absurdity of my surroundings. These dreams are shards of irrationality. The loftiest reason springs from the cradle of darkness with the germinating seed of a bleeding ideal, so piercing that the reflection of life gives it form and functionality. I have brandished and slain all by which reality breathes in harmony with the blades of stark madness, and like a venomous snake spread the bane of immortality. The aethers gleam athirst for breath’s sublime counsel; for I thieved their wine from their lips, and fed them sand from the deserts of necromancy. Oh, but to feel the warmth of shapely concept and pattern! Oh, but to exit the abandoned cavern of primordiality! One would beseech of himself the zeal to power to traverse the labyrinthine darkness into deeper regions of blackness to gaze upon the light of Abyss, and transfigure consciousness to heights unimagined.

How many times have I rode the horse of delusion by the creed of self-righteousness, and my touch wound the souls of travelers! Yes, I had no heart; for I damned and devoured it. Its rebirth was imposed to unveil the tragedies when I drank from my own venom to comprehend the deathful art of deed and utterance.

Compassion showed its face in the tender observation of all around me.

To appreciate, to love without attachments with the immanent knowledge of my needs and desires: out of comprehension rather than prejudice.

My iron fist has been nothing other than the reflection of my own savagery.

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry: Enunciation at the Monarch’s Hall (IV)

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!”.

Image by Mark Frost from Pixabay

Littered Walking Corpses

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.

Exchange: A Smile for Broken Fetters (08/07/2020)

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.

The Gift of Self

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

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.