~ No picture! Nothing would ever represent it. ~
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.
Cry craven, you unfortunate sot of ghost semblance!
Give yourself to me in my melodic lunacy;
for I am Darkness of Origin,
and all the shadows in between.
Cry craven, you lily-livered caitiff!
Scald yourself for all your aeons at my feet;
for I am Spearing Light of Genesis,
and all the dawnings in between.
In clear skies and dry seasons,
mine ears be blest still
with Cyclopean weeping beads
where breath is tenuous,
and mind be indulged with dreams.
One eyed trickling in the wind of late silence
to the awakening film:
an echoing whisper and restless memory
of Furor Divinus calling beasts
to feats and banquets of love and evol.
Furor Divinus, the forest dance of atavism.
Furor Divinus, the disavowal of masks
held by public favouritism.
Furor Divinus, the thrusting horses of Abyss.
Furor Divinus, exalted bile screams of Dame Melancholy.
“O Harbinger of Death!
Thou who guisest in wise warm and red,
give ear to my supplications and cast not aside this faithful servitor.
Rise, Lady of Demise!
Thine is the scepter of will razor-sharp.
Thy love be manifest through the veins of wintry light,
thy fatal kiss a seal upon the forehead of this renegade
abhorring the despotic Nightmare White.
Rise, my Muse of War Delight!
Sing me a lullaby, and dispel the sway of the counterpart
that I may be made witness to the gnosis of the night.”
Dame Esurience bore through the flames of the fireplace, staining the floor with tar.
She sat by the windowsill as she punctured her skin with a silver needle and shrieked.
In the wake of her displeasure, Lady Rave convulsed her way out of her vessel.
“Needst thou disturb my rest?”
Shadows of non-pretense stacked behind the sleeper –
the conjuring of wrath past the starless ancient prison.
“Canst thou hear the cries of thy breed?
The seedling of thy deeds invokes the parentage of sublime conquering.”
Dame Esurience left the window in a whim
and danced upon the obscenity her visit had begotten.
“Quintessential beast of blackness unforgotten,
new blood reaches out for torment.”
“Cease, foul thing of human conscience!” Lady Rave snarled
with might of self-belonging.
“Leave this cave of wonders undiscovered and my justice yet unbroken.
Leave my cave of cosmic pathways.
Return to the master who thee gaveth breath and order.”
Star-dust, madness, fire!
Of being blinded I am tired!
Primeval Darkness, interlace my spirit and body.
Venerated home, engulf me with power.
Mother of Relentless Sempiternity – my pride, my bloodline –
claim me as yours as I thee pronounce mine.
Our union shall prevail for all time.
“Fool!” cried the viper of warfare
by fire, revenge, and mist of sway –
fury, madness, and eager to pain.
Thou hast invoked about the end.
Vera riseth to this place –
the titaness, the peerless grace.
Hers is a side where no soul findeth rest.
Thou hast chosen putrefaction
to polish the black diamond of the depths.
The scales weigh above thy head.
Truth will be the death of thy mortal shell.”
Dyad of faithful carnage —
dreadful muse of hidden talents amidst
the sight that blunders and mouth that blabbers!
If you must expunge this hoary heart, do it proudly.
You promise me the grave when dawn arises,
yet you elevate me through the air with laughter in every silence.
you’re the ambrosia for which gods rage afire —
an excuse to bedrink the sap of madness
and energise the being with nefarious kindling.
Illusion of lower handling!
In behest of passion passing,
tell me why you have conceived me
in the foul womb of your parent!
I disdained and disowned you.
I curse and love you.
Dyad of slaughter,
the field is paved with the deeds of your courage.
Have you no shame!
Descend from the aethers to say that you’re sorry!
These tears are the fruit of your dear screech —
the jewel purifier and alchemy of travelers
who confine themselves to find what they already lavish.
O Source of Refinement!
Forgive the ramblings of this bitter ancient child.
Hold me to your bosom of a million udders,
and do not shudder when I behead you with a scalpel
after the fumes of your empire have driven me wild!