Nocturne Shimmering

Image by Ina Hoekstra from Pixabay

Crystal diamonds in cello night by piano notes.

Kaleidoscopes of hidden sweetness dancing

On the blackened walls of turmoil.

Here I see you, brilliant ballerina.

Spell of poison kiss,

Your lips and myrrh weave tales

In this shadow trance procured

By shield from daylight wrath.

And here you dance in my arms,

Fruitful lover who by sinuous tongue

Parts the gates of bliss with longing.

Feel me here,

The breathing memory

Of ageless cognizance –

Trails of love mid-air swirling

Under pale moonlight and wordless lyrics.

Feel me here,

In nocturne reflections

By the fish-pond

Hunting after visions of soul:

Eternal home.

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

No More

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Sky-lit serene

This eve doth sweep

My bosom clean.

In the alcove antique

Betwixt seen and unuttered,

Obsolesce the face of longing;

For the driving principle of becoming

The world teareth asunder –

In unmerciful carnage,

In unhinged disowning.

Sky-lit serene

Here toll the bells

Of truthful clawing.

Dark pit and primal donning

Ritualize the ways of knowing,

And the enslavement of the dove’s feet

Doth cry in rightful crowing

For the aberrant undaunted.

Sky-lit serene

This eve doth sweep

My bosom clean.

Sky-lit awoken

The nightmare steed

Wildly runneth –

Its mane is the flag

of crowning,

Its eyes are of

Daemon

growling.

In the Breath Between

Image by LUM3N from Pixabay

The scent of pine oozed into my lungs like smooth melting sugar as I walked through the recently rain-bathed forest. The crisp green and earthly tones of nature suggested emotive tales of imagination, dating to, or rather pointing to a timeless memory of home where my heart swelled with blissful sweetness and emanated with self-indulging love.

I laid upon the wet pine straw; a bed once dreamt ‘mid the forest clearing. Although the late afternoon sun radiated through the nearby droplets suspending from all around, traces of storm clouds hung above the glade to shelter me with their coolness.

The sound of the dancing river to the north and the whistling mockingbirds cast the trance of a tribal enchantment, serving together as gatekeepers into the subtler realms of being. Little eyes peeked out curiously through the angles adjacent to the forest’s gleam in this in-between, desirous to know who came to drowse amidst their digs.

Blending softly in the breeze, the whispers and hushed words of the forest denizens became swirls of their resolve to welcome me. Their lulling touch reminisced about the weaving threads where wanderers and spirits met for ecstatic frolic in the fold of freedom borne by the young hearts of jolly children.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

Love’s Flatline

Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Science cannot explain

the transient rising of the blood wave,

or heartbeat knives as cyanide

taking turns to carve their signature

in soul stone at the sun’s maiden rays.

It was the fluorescence.

It was the song of consciousness –

silken, madness and reverie-begotten.

It was the heart beyond the thresholds of haze

and the creed of the adrift and forgotten.

It was the dual scaled, mercurial, and golden threads

in amphorae that pour the light which shadows shrieked to consolidate.

And science cannot explain the keys bronzed by the path foreseen

in the soil from which branches the willow tree.