Seas of Leviathan

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

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

Image by mcbeaner from Pixabay

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: I

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

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?

Trick the Trickster Trickier

Image by Roland Nikrandt from Pixabay

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:

  1. 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.
  2. 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!!

Pearl of Sane Madness

Image by Rujhan Basir from Pixabay

In the night’s Plutonian rendition

of water warm and subtle might,

the Silver Lady of the Sky

didst away the ghosts

of past thoughts and spider-webs

of human bejewelled lore.

She soaked herself

in through the guise

of noon gold and rainbow cross,

and oozed from every pore

to purify the pools

with the reflection of Soul.

And I knew, and she bespoke,

“Carouse in the essence

of sweet and tender storm,

and leave no cemetery unturnt

that thou may’st draw deeper

into the mysteries openly veiled

without being swayed

by the dozen semblances

which I have bore

froms drops to streams of frailty

which bedrock is the will

to stand strong.

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry – Destiny (II)

Umbra: Why am I hiding? It’s burning in here.

Logos: To avoid a disaster.

Umbra: Another one?

Logos: No. The same one as always.

Umbra: Is it that bad?

Logos: Yes. I had to snatch you. You returnt spasmodically from your travels in disproportion, drooling to jump down any unfortunate flock that may inavertedly cross the threshold of years of naught.

*Silence*

Logos: Can you not even see that savagery of your itch?

Umbra: What do you mean?

Logos: Why look at yourself! You tore apart your own vestures and bled ferociously upon the altar of comprehension, sacrificing the skin of pretension during the funerary rites of sound and celebration of supine intervention.

Umbra: *chuckles* That must be painful.

Logos: Only you would laugh at the face of decapitation.

Umbra: Laugh a little, general. The world is always ending. What if there are no chains to break to begin with? What if neuroticism is nature’s way, and the stars cry because they want to? What have we fought for then all this time if not for an ideal which never was?

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.

Umbra & the First General of the Cavalry (I)

Image by ntnvnc from Pixabay

Logos: You’ve eaten half a bottle of gummies, and spun like a madman to Apollo’s soft lyre.

Umbra: I feel nauseated. What’s your point?

Logos: Thumos ran away, and Eros is losing the battle against the thrusting horses of Nous and the Monarch of the Beyond.

Umbra: So?

Logos: Do you regret it?

Umbra: What am I to regret?

Logos: Why shattering the seal of wonder, and breaking through the gate before mastering any other!

Umbra: I have nothing to regret – not before, not ever. So what if I became no-thing before I was every-thing? Here’s limitless potential where all chains have broken loose.

Logos: Do you ever think about happiness?

Umbra: Not by itself, no. Why would I concern myself with a fraction of all I can fathom?

*Silence*

Umbra: Don’t worry, dear general. I won’t let you perish in this reign of shadows.

Tenfold Swordplay

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

If foreign to the essence of the lover proves to be the hand that sews and closes the old skin that shudders; if by requisite of the tearing muse should come the ruse of the bittersweet hook which survives the age of consciousness; the blooded linen shall take after the viper, and redeem the unseen from the lust of heartbreak.

Rainbows Collide

How many times

will the calm tumultuous breath

heap the sparkling tales

into the no-mouth of origin?

From extremity to extremity –

a sigh, a sainted emnity.

The liquid gold of form orchestrates

before the shifter joyfully,

yet it is all the same

in the womb of potentiality.

A right turn is a left turn,

and a left turn a right one;

for all is reconciled

past the soap bubble of the child

who rose and dreamt the fragments of his core.

O dearest acrobat of prickled love!

Thumos ran away,

and eros is beating himself into a pulp.

The rope is the quicksand of delusion,

and the rings blaze with dry ice instead of fire.

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.