Suolavaltakunta

Image by 2234701 from Pixabay

Yö tanssii päiväsurmaajana

hulluudesta kunniaan ja loistoon;

sen huulilta maistuu merenneidon katkeruudelta,

ja niistä syntyy uusia myrkkyjä.

Suolapyhäköissä kuiskutellaan

syvyyksien terävää kieltä;

tulipunaisena ja tulikyntenä

herää se lupaava kiihko,

joka heikkoja appaa

ja kuolemattomien verellä maalaa

rivistöön olemisen.

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.

To Quell Bananas in Cuckoo-Store

~ No picture! Nothing would ever represent it. ~

Methought to amuse the unthinkable,

to run after the trace of All that is and naught

just to race like a wild horse in circles of tail-tale,

and become bemused - more still desertly mad

in the uneasiness of human mind frenzied!

For realities merge, crash, and detach 'fore our eyes -

ever real, but always mythical.

A twin of water weeps as it rejoices 

at the majesty of the phenomenon.

Deep within, all the fleshly suited renters

thirst for the goblet which will never quench

the full abstract desire.

Legacy of the Grotesque

The wind-beaten lake was beset by offshore storms of confounded and weeping veils. In the midst of the tempest, awareness rose enraged to calm the waters, and the mirror-like lake became a reflection of an alternate state. All knights gathered under one plate, one flag, one creed to sustain: one-pointed laser stare beyond the conceivable extent; thus, the voice was the wordless wordly observant who severed the umbilical cord of the pre-conceptual which sat in the cave of his own reflection to execute the ways of consolidation.

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.

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.

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.

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!!

Revival of Old Minstrels

Image by Hans Braxmeier from Pixabay

Callous angel –

tears made dry –

nourished by the blood

of the children of dawn,

slaves are the portrait

before eagle eyes.

~*~

Evil angel –

walking night –

scales of steel

narrate the path alight

under the marching moon

which conquers the veiling

of torched fireflies.

~*~

Hellish angel –

laughter mad –

spring is the cradle

of rainbow pastimes,

a will o’ the wisp –

a theatre of mirrors

and misty hearts.

~*~

Sovereign angel –

versed in poise

razor-sharp –

enframing the sequence

of eldritch chorale,

hey ho the blade,

the rust and the scent!

Myriad voices

scream in pain,

yet no wave pierces

the simpering

of the pitiless.

Yabbersensoflying

As nightfall paints the world, I relish the peace before the storm. A distant dribbling basketball marks the pace to trance and mindfulness in this precious silence. It will all be tainted when the front door opens, and the artificial lights turn on.

~*~

The dribbling ball has stopped. There is only the infinite silent chiming in my ears.

~*~

The first star has appeared in the last moments of the dimming sky. A bittersweet dull sensation grips my heart. Are these my feelings, or am I channelling the essence of those I watch from the booth up the theatre of life? Is my savoring of quietude now a torture within me burning? Do I wish to be ravished by the storm?

At least, it would be done.

At least, it would be past water.

At least, I would know the extent of its atrocity.

~*~

All sunshine has surrendered to the imposing darkness. Praise the fanciful romance everlasting! The cold floor has hardened, but it cannot be thus for longer, and-

Nevermind. I cannot further my observations in sainted silence.

~*~

The door opened. The artificial lights turnt on. The storm came, and I am bored.

A Deadly Symphony

Image by Prawny from Pixabay

Neither there nor here –

dwelling in the inbetween where nothing is real,

yet it all lives and has its being.

Deem it a dream –

a heartbeat of torment perpetual.

It is madness viewed through the eyes of the eternal –

a foreign iconoclast so closely distant.

Dancing in the breeze like some aethereal sylph,

the heavens sing and the heart screams;

for the watcher has forgot to be human.

Wound from the Cold Torch

Image by emsalgado from Pixabay

Wail the winter of thy harvest.

Forbear to sacrifice the sun to the hoarfrost;

for the river ran its course with the autumn laws.

Bleed upon the tombstone of thy own core.

Withhold thy kiss from the lips of loss,

and thus thy hands from the sepulcher of love.

Return to the void whence thou crawled’st,

and with thee take the subjugating chains of conscience.

Illusionist and woe of serpentine discordance,

be exiled to the gutter of the fallen!

Remember what was to thee promised:

there is no life for thy venomed calling.

For Whom the Shadows Sing

Image by Karen Smits from Pixabay

The skeleton is scattered upon the old carpet.

The closet’s door is blown to shards,

and blood is splashed on the wall.

It trickles down to the spinning floor.

‘Twas I who dragged out the bones –

for retribution, for pain, for a love much higher than the taught self.

And I look at myself,

“Who shall hoist thee better than thyself?

Nay.

Break thyself.

Return to the earth

through the sacred fire of willful vision and rise, dear Phoenix!

Rinse the ashes off thy vibrant plumage,

and continue where the fight challenged thee last”.