The Other Eye and the Silent Scream

The crepuscular light daily sets the stage for a new pilgrimage past the mouth of Abyss into the throne of a Black Sun, which abrasive sublime rays sear away the confusion of the day; although it may as well strip the heart off desire bent after object and natural course and edge. Here in the darkness does reason bathe in purity, and conviction’s resolve illuminates the beclouded use of breath and focused target.

Donning the crown of the depths, there is no escape from the timeless folly. The frolic of pretence enrobes and weds the conscious insanity, and the tarred alchemical tears are, each one, a perforating spear from the pilgrim’s reflective pool of inanity.

Dawn is the archetypal succour for the children of the golden orb, whilst in its embrace the offspring of chimerical antics run erratic, in pain writhing, under the blistering light of consensual literacy.

Blood-Month Hypnosis

Crystal mirror and moonlight dim.

Aetherial arms of rusty metal

draped in delicate fantasy.

Like nebulous blades of strings,

its concert casts the will of the puppeteer.

The beasts roam between sleep and lucidity,

yet the colossus still chases the mirage of unreality.

You will hear his screams echo in the wind,

but his ravings are speared in the wall of subtlety.

The eyes that see stare entranced at the infinite,

and thoughts flee from the chamber of wordly lunacy.

“I once was human”, a voice rustles in

from the backdrop of the scenery,

“yet I died in the pyre of my own scavenging”.

“Does it hurt?”, the undines peep out their heads

from the night pond curiously; “Do you weep?”

The voice retreats.

Silence falls on autumn’s lips,

yet the sentient architect knows

the possible impossibility.

Sandalwood, myrrh, and peppermint

outline the edges of myriad realms –

so apart, yet scarcely distant.

Above two poles of shipwrecked mariners

broken against the rocks of lawful quietness,

sits enthroned the lord of madness.

His eyes burn lapis lazulized,

and his domain is the reflection

of his inventive sacredness

still rubified.

Recordatorio en el Lecho de Muerte

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.

Evanescence of the Sentimental (08/07/2020)

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.

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.

Seas of Leviathan

Image by Mylene2401 from Pixabay

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

Beads of Transcendence

Image by Janet Herman from Pixabay

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.

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

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.