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!!

Incision of Dusk Kissed Escapades

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

“You are one to abhor attachments that, like chains, hold you to an immutable terrain of flesh-eating corpses, yet by contradiction of your modus operandi, you launch against the Maiden of Oblivion with stark acrimony.”

~*~

“I see that being left alone with me has set your talents free. Do you enjoy what you see? Let all who have eyes to see and all ears to hear how all difference and manners come to be. Yes, I abhor her whose promise is weak, as I do loathe the haze of dormancy, yet that hardly makes me a hypocrite. You see, in my centuries alive, I have never measured progress through the eclipse and dearth of consciousness. I am the mindful memory who propels forward with sentient step, crafting jewels out of events that nothing may go to waste. I accept my responsibility toward myself, and erect pillars of serving grace. I forgo surrendering war to the deceitful bliss of forgetfulness, and embrace the shadows born from my ancient crevices.”

(III) Centelleo Implacable (Spanish Collection)

La eternidad no puede matar

El estigma en el alma cortante

Dos rubíes, dos llagas escarlata

Portadoras de rabia y desastre

¡Ay Noche!

¿Quién diría que el destello que palpita

no es más que un pozo de agonía?

¡Ay Noche!

¡Qué mentira la danza propicia!

¡Qué fácil la salida!

Pon a un lado la amargura

Ahoga el haz de la cordura

¡Levántate!

Vístete de sangre inmunda

Mancilla con dicha al rompe sonrisas

Canta una canción de luz y día

Grita la verdad, ¡muerte en vida!

At the Crossroads of Primordial Prerogative

Image by Yakir from Pixabay

Amidst the ruins of an age dome

‘tween the grossest lordship of shapes most atrocious

and the boundless no-thing pre times immemorial,

let the ghastly, dreadful bump in the day

of insidious accounts in display

rot away and be cleansed in the pyre of black flames

which underlie the nature of supposed verity.

At the crossroads,

now awaken the symbolic coiler of Abyssinian currents,

anticipating skilful will and word and concept spoken.

At the crossroads,

now blink and consolidate the vortex of sight in divine right

with the longing beating heart which has bled and wept in dire light.

Awaken, beloved, and sever the surrogate hand

of petty and presumptuous regard.

Awaken now and behold thyself with fresh insight.

~*~

Will you rise

or will you cave into

the oblivious daytime night?

Cross of the Counter-Swan

Softly, you creep into my skin.

The euphoria of an abandoned wish

is the scent you torment me with

as I look into your eyes and see myself

staring back through the mass of tar and intimate regard.

I see you dance upon the carcass of time with merry remarks

ere you whisper in my ears that you’re mine by decree of bloodline.

My spirit hums at the presence of your touch;

still, as I let myself descend through your tunneling caress,

I flee from your embrace whilst my shell tears apart;

for the start of a feverish wont sunrise licks my wounds

to have me bleed and quench the subtle brute athirst

with the passion of a hound.

You yell out my name frenzied and crowned.

I turn my back and feel my tears abound.

With every step I take, away from your domain, I pray for your forgiveness

as I daydream of a time

when you and I will walk side by side.

For now, suffer me to depart.

I will return to you

when the primeval spring meets the secular in art.

The union of scorching hands will be the bridge

for our longing hearts.

You and I will be one

by decree of bloodline and ardor sublime.

Sovereignty of the Mourning Brat

Image by JL G from Pixabay

From the ashes of past

’till the shadow hereafter,

the wrath of my soul shall breathe you terror.

I will laugh and conjure the fire of the nameless stars

as I relish your agony and frolic in this crown of tar.

You let me down, little bird of the sky —

bound me to a life in silence.

You stringed my limbs as far as it could have lasted.

There’s nowhere to go in this world forlorn

for one who takes not the spear of divine role.

Caged in your own disaster,

you will yearn for my poison dagger.

The winds will deny your voice and swallow your words

as penitence for your narrow-mindness.

Give me your tears, Asinine of Unsuited Matters!

I shall drink the nectar transmuted in the entrails of your delightful mother,

and free the world as I drag you crestfallen.